The Mystery of the Scarlet Star
by CorvidCoccinelle
Summary: When John Watson's old army friend turns up at 221b Baker St he is scared for his life. He's being haunted by the ghost of someone he knows is dead. Can the world's only consulting detective and an ex army doctor solve the mystery of the scarlet star?
1. Summons

I'm with Clara at Columbia Road market when he texts me. My arms full of lilies, I fumble for my phone as Clara buys another three bunches for this display she's doing. Juggling blooms and covered in pollen, I read the screen.

"Come home now. SH" I sigh and am just putting my phone back in my pocket. What does he want now? Someone to reach the newspaper for him? Toast? The phone beeps again.

"I don't want toast, it's urgent. SH" I shake my head. How does he do that? Clara turns to me and I can see she's relieved we found what we came for. It's a big contract and her first foray into dressing rooms for conferences. We walk to her car and she takes half of the armful of flowers from me.

"Thanks for this John; I've got just what I need." She sees the phone somewhere under all the petals. "Is that Sherlock? Do you need to go?" I nod and roll my eyes, she laughs. "John Watson, under the thumb, I never thought I'd see the day." I grin and shake my head.

"It's not so much that Clara. Last week I didn't reply to his text and he burnt the wallpaper off the kitchen wall because he was reading something interesting and I didn't arrive to turn the toaster off." She laughs and I have to smile, despite the damage and the money the decorator cost. She touches my arm.

"It's so good to see you feeling better after..." she doesn't end her sentence. I am glad. It's been two months since that awful Rubber Ring business, I'm still having the nightmares, although they've lessened recently and Clara doesn't even know all the details. The phone beeps again.

"Really. John, I really need you home. Now. SH" I glance apologetically at Clara who smiles and takes the rest of the flowers and arranges them carefully in boxes on the back seat and starts to clip the seat belt over them.

"Is it really important Sherlock? I'll be about half an hour getting to 221b. JW" I text back. In seconds the phone makes another noise.

"I can just about wait that long. COME HOME. I NEED " oh god, what's he done now?

"Is there room for a lift? Are you even going straight back to Baker St?" I ask Clara. She shakes her head.

"Sorry John, I've got some ribbons and oasis foam to get now, or those little crystally things that hold the water, I can't decide." I kiss her cheek and she smiles. "Are we still on for Sherlock's birthday party?"

"Yes, I'll give you a ring. Anyway no problem about the lift, I'll see you later. Give me a call next time you need the European lily surplus lugging home!" she laughs and I make off towards the tube station.

"Are you in trouble? JW" I text.

"Deadly. SH" did he just send a smiley? What?

"Sherlock..." I hope my warning tone comes across in the one word message. There is no answer and I begin to panic. Surely he can't be in real danger? Who texts a smiley face when they're in real danger? Sherlock Holmes is who, I realise with a sigh and jog down the steps to the platform. If I go from here to Mile End station, I'd usually consider this going in the wrong direction, then I can get on the Hammersmith and City line and get directly to Baker St tube station.

The journey takes twenty seven minutes. I look at my watch the whole way. My blood pounds in my ears and I can't help my imagination, fuelled by my recent experiences, running away with me.

He's been kidnapped and the kidnappers have his phone and are texting me. He's been attacked in the house by a group of thugs who've realised that Sydney Doyle, the old geezer they go down the dog track with once a month, is really some public school boy who went to Harrow. It's a bomb, strapped to his chest and he only has his text hand free. Get a grip John, get a fucking grip.

By the time I run up the stairs at Baker St and cross the heavy traffic I have thought through about twenty life and death situations that Sherlock could easily be in. Only three of them include no outside influences and kitchen equipment. What sort of a man do I live with? I sigh and am just dodging another SmartCar when the phone beeps again.

"Bring popcorn if you fancy it. SH" I stop in the road, staring at my phone. A man on a bike shouts angrily at me and swerves around my motionless form. I quickly make my own deductions. This is about that bloody video. Jesus. He's been trying to get me to watch it for weeks now, but I'm too shy.

At the time we made it I was in the zone, high on lust and adrenaline and the new game we were playing and we haven't played since. But now, sober in the bright light of the winter morning, it just feels like I might die of embarrassment to watch it with him, oh god.

Our sex life's been a bit odd to be honest since the business with Freiman. After a few weeks of hardly any sleep, the nightmares back with a vengeance, I just haven't had the energy. And, even though, mentally, the idea of being intimate with him is still an enormous turn on, when it comes to it in real life something goes cold, clams up. Sherlock's been very patient, not pushing it or making me feel bad about it but I do. And it's not like I don't fancy him like mad. The dreams I have which are not about concrete rooms and screaming girls are full of him. Full of his voice, his skin, his need for me. Both sorts of dreams have me waking up sweating.

I stop outside the flat, debating whether to actually buy popcorn, and sneak a look at the picture on my phone. There's one I've not shown him, it occurs to me he's probably seen it because it's almost a law of physics that you can't hide things from Sherlock Holmes, but he's never commented.

The picture is of him sitting at the window of 221b, the window just above my head as I stand outside the front door. The light is on his face, contrasting those high cheekbones and his chiselled mouth, almost like he's in black and white. His dark purple shirt is open three buttons at the neck and one long hand rests against his chin. It's hard to catch him sitting still and I had to pretend to be making tea to sneak the shot but I must have looked at it ten times a day since.

I look at it now and it's as though I can trace the lines of his face and his neck without any help from the picture. I know how his skin will smell, how it will feel. I know how he will arch and moan under my touch. If he feels anything like I do after these last few weeks of enforced almost - chastity he'll be craving my body as much as I have realised, with a start standing on Baker St looking at my phone, I am craving, yearning for his. I unlock the door and rush up the stairs. Mrs Hudson's door flashes open.

"Here," she passes me a plastic bucket of popcorn with a roll of her eyes. "He sent me to buy this Said you wouldn't bother." She shakes her head and I mumble my thanks but she's not listening. She goes back into her flat.

I unlock the door realising this means he hasn't been outside since I locked him in this morning. Sometimes I feel like I have a teenage son. The flat is dark; the long heavy curtains pulled across the windows in a way we rarely bother. One slant of the pale sunshine cuts the room into an uncomfortable third and sitting in that ray of light is Sherlock.

He is on the sofa, head back, long legs on the coffee table. The surface of this table's littered with magazine which I don't think were there when I ate my toast this morning and his big feet indent the shiny covers. His skin looks so pale that it's almost translucent. His dark hair frames his face; curling on his brow and making him look like some kind of fallen angel. You've got to say it, my boyfriend's a looker. I smile to myself. One of his eyes opens and swivels towards me and I am caught in what I like to refer to now as 'the laser'. He smiles slowly.

"You brought popcorn." His voice is dark and even from across the room I know on what level his mind is working. About the level of his trouser buttons I'd guess. He pats the sofa next to him with a long hand and points with the other at the TV. "It's cued up." I swallow. Oh god.

Faced with the physicality of him, the realness of what he wants and what I secretly want I suddenly start to doubt myself.

"Mrs. Hudson bought the popcorn Sherlock. You made her do it." I stall for time, taking off my jacket, realising how much I smell of pollen. He arches an eyebrow at me. He is not falling for it. He pats the sofa more firmly.

"Do I have to come over there and make you sit still with me? Because you know I can John." it's that tone, that tone he uses when he's in control of the situation, of me. I feel myself getting hard and I mentally tell myself off for being so fucking easy for him. He grins again, that shark smile that, even though I'm used to it, still flips my stomach over.

"No. No, you don't. I'm er...coming. Just taking off the jacket, you know." I make a show of draping it over a chair. He grins wider. I sit next to him and look at the screen. In the grainy shot is a man, fully dressed and spread eagled against a fireplace. The fireplace looks very similar to the one I am sitting opposite. The man looks very similar to me. Oh dear. We're really going to watch this aren't we? Two sides of me, the two sides who have been competing for the last two months are at it again inside my head and body. There's the scared John Watson who doesn't want any contact from anyone because he can't get those pictures of that girl out of his head and once those pictures come back then they bring the other pictures, of Afghan, friends I've lost. Then I want to cry, run away from my own brain which houses these images.

And there's the other John Watson and he's the man on the screen waiting for Sherlock Holmes to tell him to take his clothes off. Because yes, I have memorised what's on this tape and yes, I do want to watch it with him.

He hands the remote control to me and licks his top lip slowly. I can feel the heat of his skin through his shirt and my jumper. It's not even physically possible. I shake my head a little and push out a long breath. I press play.

"Take off your clothes." The picture is clear now the tape is playing. Idly I realise that Laura's camera equipment was bound to be high quality, expensive. I also realise I am trying to distract myself. It's like watching snogging on the TV with your parents in the room. I nearly giggle. But then John on the screen is shaking slightly and I watch him, interested in his reaction to Sherlock's voice.

There's something sulky, almost petulant in the way this John removes his jumper and his t shirt. He drops them on the floor with an attitude which I've seen new squaddies use the first time they take orders. It's a pose which says 'I'm not doing this because you're telling me; I still have a choice here." A friend of mine, an old soldier, told me that the sulkiness is the first thing to break if you want a good soldier. Sherlock breaks me easily I think as I watch myself, leaning on one leg and looking insolently at Sherlock who is just off camera.

"Take them off John." his voice; his command are having the usual effect on my body. I feel myself harden and shift on the sofa to get more comfortable. Beside me Sherlock slides his eyes to my face, then my crotch. His hand rests on my knee and I feel like I've been tazered. "Of course if you're saying you don't want me to fuck you, hard, with the bar and the camera on then..." Sherlock on the screen steps forward with an insouciant shrug, elegant and careful. God he's sexy like this. His voice, almost a growl and that upper class accent saying those awful things has me unravelled here on the sofa. Watching him now, without being in the game on the screen, makes me realise just how much I want him. It's like watching your favourite bits of TV over and over because you've got a crush on the actress. Or the actor, my brain amends by itself.

Next to me I hear Sherlock's breathing become more pronounced. The John on the screen sighs and unfastens his jeans, his eyes carefully avoid the camera but I can tell from his posture how turned on he is. He kicks them off, submission in the flick of his leg. This man is me, I remind myself, me before the night with Freiman, before the new nightmares. That man, desperation and desire screaming from his every gesture, is me. I invoke him, I will myself back to that state of being where I could give myself up, surrender to my body and its needs.

The hand on my leg strokes a small circle across the bone of my kneecap. The circle is warm and tingles like electricity is threading from his fingertips and down the nerve endings. I try to swallow the mounting panic which is filling me as my body responds to his touch and my brain tries to shut it down, to protect itself.

"Nice." Sherlock on the screen smirks the word and bites his lip. The expression is arrogant and erotic. I see John's chest rising and falling rapidly, I can clearly see how hard I am, how hard Sherlock makes me. "Touch yourself." Ah god. I hadn't forgotten, but hearing it now those words thrill through me. I shift again in my seat as I watch myself shake my head, I can't remember now if I was refusing or giving up.

The circle on my leg widens as we both watch the other John begin to touch himself. His fingers slide over his hard cock and I hear the moan which issues from his lips. Sherlock's hand brushes up my thigh, rests there with his long fingers wrapped inside my leg, inches from my erection, trapped in my jeans. The struggle between head and body rages inside me. I want to run away but I also want him to touch me.

"Open your eyes, look at me John." For a second I think he has spoken and I look at him beside me. Sherlock is not watching the screen, he is watching me. His lip is held between his teeth and he is breathing heavily. Dropping my eyes from this intense gaze I can't help but see his arousal. My eyes flick back to the screen but there's no solace there. "Look at me John." says Sherlock on the tape.

I watch my own fingers with a dreadful fascination; I can almost feel them touching me now. I slow my hand and he shakes his head. That careful, almost invisible gesture has me panting, I squirm on the sofa. Sherlock's hand on my leg grips tighter. A throb begins to build in my groin. On the screen my hands move faster, harder.

"Stop. Stop John." on the screen I take my hands away and I watch the torment chase itself over my face as my body thrusts without my volition. Sherlock steps more into the frame now. He runs his hand down me and trails his long fingers through the hair between my legs. I hear a moan and recognise my own voice but it takes me a moment to realise that it is not John on the screen who made that noise, it was me.

My legs have inched apart and I am slumped down, Sherlock's hand has slid nearer and nearer to my erection. The blood pounds in my head but I don't know what to do. The invisible, gelatinous skin which has developed between us in the last few weeks feels hard to break and I can't find the words to conjure it away. He is still looking at me, I can feel his gaze.

"Turn around." I watch the other John obey and god I wish it was me. Sherlock fastens the cuffs and pushes himself against my body. I sneak a glance to where he is sitting next to me on the sofa. He lets out a long, shuddering breath. His knuckles are white on my leg and his pupils are huge and black.

He watches himself on the screen as he attaches the bar. I see my own body bent forward as though I am offered to him. I watch that pale hand caress my buttocks.

"Oh John, I'm going to enjoy this." Beside me Sherlock moans and his hand creeps nearer. He still hasn't dared to touch me. I appreciate his concern but I need to break this cold, clinging barrier between us. I want him to throw me down on the sofa, ravish me, take me like some Victorian damsel because then I would have no choice. But of course he won't.

I can't take my eyes from the screen as I watch us fucking. Because that's what it is Watson, I tell myself cruelly. Sort yourself out. You want this man. Look at you, listen to yourself. This is what you want. That voice is right. I watch us come. I hear him growling, my own voice hoarsely crying his name. I watch him turn my face to the camera and I watch that tension, that ecstasy of sensation play itself out on my face. I see him shudder, coming inside me and I don't know what to do. Desire and panic in equal measure make me shake next to him on the sofa. He is panting and I know he must be feeling this dreadful tension. He lifts his hand and, before he can take it away, I grab those fingers and put them on my crotch, squeezing him against me. He sighs and needs no other invitation.

He unfastens my jeans, I vaguely hear the tape hiss and turn itself off but it's peripheral, irrelevant because he is sliding to the floor, on his knees between my legs. All the pressure, the frustration of two months without him are killing me. His mouth hovers over the obvious bulge of my erection and he unwraps me from my shorts like he's unbandaging a patient. I suppose he is. He looks at me and his eyes are pleading and huge. He licks his lips and my hips jump forward.

"John... can I? I mean... I want to..." he licks his lips again. I firmly push my words through the cold porridge skin which keeps us apart.

"Yes Sherlock. Please." Relief washes over him but he doesn't waste time registering it. He puts his lips over the tip of me and swallows me into his mouth. The heat of his tongue, the wetness and the tightness of him overwhelms me. He holds still but my body is bucking and I can't stop myself. He swirls his tongue, the muscle playing along my fraenulum. My hands cone up from where I have been holding the sofa cushions and I grab his hair. I pull him down onto me. Pushing up so that his nose is pressed against me. He moans and two months of cold distance is bridged in an instant. How could I ever deny this feeling, this man?

I moan, I shudder and I come for him. He holds my hips and I see his throat working as he swallows.

"Sherlock, Sherlock. Oh god. That's so... so... god, I'm sorry." He pulls away from me and looks up as he wipes his mouth. There's something unconscious, erotic about the gesture. Even though my legs are weak I sit forward and push him down onto the floor. He is lying prone, looking at me warily. I wriggle out of my jeans and kneel between his legs. I run my hand over his obvious arousal. He bucks up against me.

"John, John," he pants. I watch his eyes roll up and his mouth slacken. I unfasten his trousers and pull them down. He opens his eyes. "You don't have to... you don't, not just because..." I lean over him and I feel his hard flesh burning my lower stomach as our bodies touch. I kiss him and I taste myself on his lips. It's intimate, terrifying, but I am going to surf this wave of fear if it kills me. I will not let him down.

"I'm doing this because I want to Sherlock. Because I want you. I want to feel you in my mouth, your hands in my hair. I want to hear it when you come for me, I want to taste you." I say it all. The words spill out of me like a second orgasm. His eyes drink it all in, his breath hitches and he moans and writhes beneath me.

I slither down his body and kiss the tip of him. I lick him slowly and then swallow him even more carefully. He is growling, pushing against me. All too soon his long fingers grip my hair. He is in my throat and I suck him hard and he is thrusting like he's forgotten everything else exists. He shouts my name. He tells me he loves me and I taste him salty, spilling over my tongue.

When I pull away he drags me up along him, wraps his arms around me. After a moment I realise one of us is shaking, I think it's me. My face feels wet and I realise I am crying. Sherlock's eyes are closed but there is a look on his face which is so obviously relief that I needn't ask if he is alright. He kisses my brow.

"Thank god for that." He sighs. I don't know if he means the orgasm or the fact we've had sex. I chuckle and he looks down at me, an eyebrow raised. "What?"

"I was just thinking the very same thing." He smiles and kisses me again. I have the curious taste of both of us as out tongues meet. We lie there still for a long time. I am just starting to feel cold, feel the uncomfortable hardness of the floor when there is a loud knocking on the door.

"Ignore it." I whisper as Sherlock makes to get up but I know he can't. I sigh as he pulls on his trousers and I sit up and put on my jeans. I sit back on the sofa and rearrange the cushions. Sherlock goes to the door.

"Erm, does John Watson live here?" It's a voice I know but it's from a long time ago. I stand up and go to look at the man on the threshold. He is older now and his black hair is streaked with some silver even though it's still cropped close to his head. His handsome face is more lined but I bet it doesn't detract from his appeal with the ladies. His skin is pale and he looks worried, ill even. When he sees me he smiles a small smile, relief writ large upon him. Then he starts to cry.

"Jamie?" I can't believe it. "Jamie McMurray? Fucking hell man, come in!" Sherlock steps back and Jamie wanders through the door, on his shoulder is his kit bag and it looks like all he has.

**Ok so starting a new story is almost as exciting and yet nerve-wracking as finishing an old one. How did I do? How the was the tape, I felt the pressure of you guys wanting to watch it! If only we could get someone to magic that tape up. (Although Jazzysatindoll does a bloody good job of the stills from Rubber Ring on her deviantart page) So please, let me know what you think... I'll be in suspense until you do... **

**I am honoured to have kept my The Baker St Irregulars! I hope you enjoy this one as much as you enjoyed the rest. : PrincessNala and Peachsilk have been so much support and help to me, Darmed – hope you're feeling better, Clubba Bear – thanks for all the help and for Gus Freiman's name, Tasty- Kate – let's plan those babies, 2cajuman2 – she talks to Moff on twitter, Tanya Zsa Zsa – always so nice about my panics, Munchiees!, Aelfric's cat – there will be some romantic violin, Nellyington – did you get a laptop? , mrs winny – always a speedy and pithy review, Despairandcupcakechild, Mouserjb4 ,Tillif and Harpyquin – you're so kind and Jazzysatindoll – making my words into pictures so cleverly! I'm lucky to know you all.**

**As always love to the OHOB and the wife. Cxx**


	2. Jamie's story

Jamie sits down in the green leather armchair and wipes his eyes. I gesture for Sherlock to put the kettle on, he looks at me blankly.

"Put the kettle on Sherlock." He nods and goes into the kitchen. I cross to the other chair and look at Jamie who is sniffing and looking in his pockets. I presume it's a tissue he's searching for and pass him the box. He smiles gratefully and wipes his eyes again.

"What's wrong? What's happened?" he runs his hands through his short hair, there's a slight rasping sound.

"John, mate, I really appreciate you inviting me in. God, I don't know where to start, you're gonna think I'm mental." Sherlock passes me a cup of tea. He looks utterly confused about what is going on.

"Sherlock, this is Jamie McMurray. We served together in Afghan. Jamie, this is Sherlock Holmes, my...flatmate." Sherlock's eyebrows raise and I am just wondering why I didn't just tell the truth when Jamie looks up and smiles at Sherlock.

"That's a funny name." He grins, Sherlock smiles.

"I know, you should hear what my brother's called." He grins and Jamie laughs. "How do you drink your tea Jamie?"

"Just milk thanks." Sherlock goes back into the kitchen and Jamie looks back at me. "Is it alright to talk in front of..." he nods his head towards the kitchen. I nod back.

"Yeah, yeah. Sherlock's heard it all I reckon. So, what's happened? You look awful."

"Thanks." Jamie laughs and it's a relief to see him take on a little of the man I used to know. He was always so carefree even in a war zone.

"Sorry, you know what I mean. Well?" he shakes his head still laughing. Then he sits back in the chair and accepts the tea from Sherlock. Sherlock goes to sit on the arm of my chair, I look at him and he hovers uncertainly and then sits on the coffee table.

"John, you know me. I'm not mad, right?" I shake my head; Jamie's always been one of the saner ones in my experience. "Ok, thanks. Well..." he pauses and sighs again. "I think I'm being haunted." I frown and I hear Sherlock snort.

"You're what? Haunted? What, by a ghost?" I ask him, trying to keep the incredulity from my voice. Jamie nods ruefully and I am aware that Sherlock is peering at him with interest. Jamie looks at Sherlock who doesn't look away.

"You mean you've seen a ghost? What did it look like? Where were you? Had you been drinking? Taking drugs? Did you speak to it? Did it communicate with you?" Sherlock's on his feet pacing in front of the fireplace. I notice a small stain on his trousers and I blush thinking of what it might be. Focus John.

Jamie looks bemused at all the questions. He puts down his mug and looks at me like he's wondering who is this guy I'm flat sharing with.

"I've seen him a few times. No, I've not taken drugs, or been drunk at the time. No, it hasn't spoken to me. What were the other questions?"

"Jamie, I think I should tell you that Sherlock's a detective. Yes, yes, I know," Jamie's eyebrows are raised. "But he is. He works with the police sometimes." Jamie nods and I'm surprised it isn't more of a revelation to him. "You knew that?" he nods again.

"Yeah, Harry said so. That's why I came over. I saw her out last night and we got talking. I said I'd not seen you in ages, she gave me your address and said you were living with a detective." He laughs and I have to admit, put like that, it does sound strange. "So I thought you might be able to help me out...and..." he sighs and sips his tea.

"Yeah? What?"

"I thought I might be able to bunk here for a bit, until this gets sorted? I daren't go back to the guest house I've been in and I can't go back to Yorkshire." I bite my lip and look at Sherlock who is looking closely at Jamie. He catches my expression and shrugs. It's a very non committal shrug. I don't know what else to do.

"Of course. Or at least for a week or two eh? It'll be a bit crowded but..."

"He can have your room." Sherlock's voice is flat and I can't tell what he's thinking.

"John's room? Why? Don't you use your room?" Jamie doesn't wait for an answer mercifully. "Nah, sofa will do me nicely boys. I only have this bag so I won't be in the way. Is it alright if I have a shower though? Haven't had one since last week." Sherlock wrinkles his nose but Jamie doesn't see it.

"Down the hall," I point. "Just use a towel out of the airing cupboard." Sherlock glares at me. "Not the blue one!" I add hastily as Jamie picks up his bag and goes out of the lounge.

When he's gone there is a long silence. Sherlock sits in the armchair and regards me, legs crossed, hands steepled.

"It's only for a week or so." I say. He speaks at the same time.

"Why did you tell him I was your flatmate?" he raises an eyebrow. Got me there, I think. I frown and twist up my mouth. Yeah, why did I do that?

"Erm... I don't know. Probably because I didn't know how he'd react. I mean the last he heard I...wasn't..."

"My lover?" suggests Sherlock silkily. I nod.

"Yes. That. I mean, it might be a bit of a shock to him and, well he seemed like he didn't need another shock so..." I realise these are all excuses to mask my real reason. That being that I was worried how an old army friend of mine would react to finding out that I was with a man. For all my 'new John' ideas there's still some 'old John' left.

"I'll tell him. Just not right now. Let me pick the right moment." I suggest and Sherlock nods once and then twists up his mouth. "What?" I know that expression and it worries me.

"We'll have to have extra quiet sex." Sherlock grins. "Have we still got that gag?" I splutter my tea but I have to admit that the idea is not an unwelcome one. This is going to be hell.

By the time Jamie's out of the shower and got changed Sherlock's gone to collect the Chinese we've ordered. He was in there for ages and I was beginning to wonder if there was something wrong but when I shouted through the bathroom door for his order from the takeaway he sounded ok. he came out pretty much as Sherlock slammed the front door.

"Thanks for this John, you've no idea how bloody awful the last month has been." He's drying his hair as he says this and he looks up at me from under the towel. "So, how come you're living with Sherlock? He's a bit...interesting." he says and laughs.

"Yeah, yeah, you could say that...he is." He laughs again.

"Is he queer?" he asks me bluntly as I wander into the kitchen and get some beer out of the fridge. I pop the bottle tops and wonder what to say next.

"What makes you ask that?" I pass Jamie a beer and he taps the neck of the bottle against mine and then hugs me fiercely. There is a moment where I think he might cry again. No one's mentioned ghosts and I'm not about to bring the subject up again no matter how curious I am.

"I dunno really... he's not, like, camp or anything. He's just..." he waves a hand and I know just what he means. "Artistic looking? I just thought he might be. I dunno, his hands. He's posh isn't he?" I nod. "Dead posh? Like 'mummy and daddy' posh? Or just minted?" Jamie sits in the armchair and looks inquisitive. I sit opposite him.

"Dead posh." I conclude after a moment. "Public school, big house. posh." Jamie whistles.

"So, not gay then?" he swigs his beer. I bite the inside of my lip and the door opens and the posh individual in question breezes in with brown paper bags of Chinese food.

"My god! That took an age. An absolute bloody age!" he announces and, for some reason, his voice seems even more upper crust than usual. Maybe it's just because we were talking about him and now I'm noticing it more.

We sit around the dining room table, Sherlock clears some test tubes and the centrifuge out of the way and Jamie grins at me.

"So, this ghost then?" Sherlock is loading his chopstick with noodles. Jamie and I have forks. I sigh, so much for not bringing up the subject. Jamie chews thoughtfully, swallows and answers.

"Yeah. Right, well." His Yorkshire accent seems more pronounced now. "It's Freddy." He looks at me.

"Freddy Terry? Freddy?" I can hear how squeaky my voice has become. Jamie glances at Sherlock who is looking from one of us to the other like it's a tennis match.

"Yeah. Freddy." He looks again at Sherlock. "John and I served with him a while back. He was a good bloke, good soldier but... well, things got to him, you know." Sherlock nods and looks at me.

"What sort of things? War? Killing people?" Jesus, does he have to be so blunt? To give him credit Jamie doesn't get annoyed.

"No, not that. Well, not really. There was some trouble, some bad business, there always is, eh John?" I nod and sigh.

"What sort of bad business?" Sherlock's voice is very dark but his expression gives nothing away. I begin to speak but Jamie interrupts me.

"It was nothing, just some talk right? Some people make me sick, they're not out getting shot at, seeing people they care about die!" he points his fork. "Those fucking people out there blow you up, shoot your mates and generally try to kill you and then moan when they get caught. It was just talk, nothing else." He looks at his plate and screws up his face. He looks like he might cry. "Sorry," he mumbles and looks up at Sherlock again, sliding his glance to me. "It's just, well, it seems unfair sometimes. And I'm tired. God, haven't slept in weeks." I put my hand over Jamie's on the table, he's shaking.

"So, the ghost?"Sherlock asks, he sounds entirely unmoved by Jamie's upset. I look at him sharply and frown. 'What?' he mouths and shrugs at me. Jamie runs his hand over his face.

"Yeah well, we were all at Freddy's funeral, you were there John." I nod. I remember that bright spring day which seemed so at odds with the dark events which had led us all to that Scottish cemetery. The birds were singing and the sea crashing down off the cliffs and Freddy's wife was crying.

"Well, I didn't see any of the lads for a while after that..."

"How did he die? Suicide?" Sherlock asks as though we haven't just been talking about a friend's funeral. Jamie stares at him.

"What? Yes. How did you... did John mention...?" I shake my head.

"No I deduced it from the fact you had alluded to Freddy's sensitivity and then spoke of his funeral. All very elementary really." Jamie looks at Sherlock like he's just spoken fluent Martian. Then he just nods and looks at me with an expression which says he's wondering about Sherlock's mental health. I smile flatly.

"Yeah, yeah. He hanged himself. Anyway," Jamie rubs his eyes and drinks the rest of his beer. I get up and go to the fridge and get us all another. "Anyway, about two weeks later I was in the garden at my mum's when I look up from digging and there he is." Sherlock sits forward and clasps his hands under his chin.

"Freddy? What was he wearing? What were you digging?" Jamie looks at Sherlock with wide eyes, completely stunned by the seemingly random questions.

"Er... he had his combats on and... spuds I think it was." Sherlock nods like this is significant and sits back, waving his hand to show Jamie should continue. Jamie raises his eyebrows at me and carries on the story.

"Right, well, I was proper freaked out. He was just looking at me from the field opposite. I knew it was him, he had that mad blonde hair do you remember?" he half smiles and I nod. "I put the spade down and he'd gone. Just like that. Like he'd never been there. Then I saw him down the pub," he glances at Sherlock, "it was a Sunday afternoon and no, I wasn't drunk. I'd told Sharon I'd drive." He looks at me.

"She had twins, Sharon." He wrinkles his nose, smiling. "So I'm Uncle Jamie now." I smile at him; it's the first oasis of normality in anything he's said so far. "Anyway, he was just there, at the bar, then someone walked past and he'd gone. It's fucking weird and I don't bloody like it. And it kept happening. Down the market, once standing by the side of the road as I drove to town."

"Was he always dressed in the same way?" Sherlock takes a drink and I can't help but watch him swallow. My mouth feels dry, I gulp my beer. Jamie nods. "He didn't speak? You're sure he was actually there?"

"I know what you're going to say, I've seen a shrink and I'm not mad." Sherlock purses his lips.

"I wasn't suggesting it but I just wondered if you were suffering from PTSD, hallucination can be quite common." Jamie shakes his head.

"I'm not mad." He repeats. "Anyway some of the other boys have seen it too." I frown.

"What? You mean Michael? Justin?" this throws me completely. Jamie nods.

"Yeah, Michael, well... Michael's in a home now, you know?" I shake my head, this is news to me. "Yeah, yeah, seeing Freddy's what pushed him over the edge." I let out a long breath and push back from the table, suddenly not interested in my food. Sherlock's fingers are steepled and there's a gleam in his eye.

"All three of you have seen this ghost?" he asks with interest.

"Yeah." Jamie looks taken aback at Sherlock's keen expression.

"Intriguing." Sherlock gets up and goes into the lounge. We hear the little tune which means the laptop's been switched on and some frantic tapping. He comes back a moment later.

"Have you spoken to anyone else about this Jamie?" he asks, his head poking around the partition doors. Jamie starts to shake his head and then he nods.

"Only a medium." He says and shrugs at me apologetically. I raise my eyebrows, what?

"A medium." Sherlock says thoughtfully.

"Teresa Connolly." Jamie says. "I started going to see her when I came down here."

"Any good?" asks Sherlock as though he believes in the supernatural which, frankly, I can't imagine. Jamie nods and looks confused.

"I dunno, not sure what I think about these things. She knew some stuff though... not stuff anyone else would know." Sherlock vanishes with another nod and Jamie and I finish the Chinese food.

"Look, I know I sound mental right?" I shake my head.

"Fucking hell Jamie, I've seen some mental stuff and I just don't know what's normal anymore you know?" he sighs and nods. We finish the meal and the beer in silence, the only sound is Sherlock's manic typing.

"Do you mind if I... look, I know I'm on the sofa but..." he's tired, I should have guessed.

"No problem. Take my bed for tonight. I'll get the airbed and sleep in here. We can sort things out properly in the morning. Sherlock's going to be doing that for a while." I jerk my head towards the crazy tapping from the keyboard. He smiles and puts his hand over mine.

"Thanks John, for the bed and for not thinking I'm a complete weirdo." I grin.

"You don't know the half of my life yet Jamie, wait until you do and then we'll see who the weirdo is." He laughs.

"Night Sherlock" he calls as he goes out of the side door and up to my room. There is no reply, just more typing.

I go into the lounge and Sherlock is flicking between five different tabs. Two are on hallucination, two on the British Forces in Afghanistan and one is just clicking off as I come in. He saves them all and shuts the lid.

"What are you thinking?" I ask him as he sits next to me on the sofa. He looks at me sideways.

"Four things." He says looking at me.

"And they are..?"I ask. I love how he stacks his thoughts up, prioritising. If you ask most people what they're thinking you only get the top one. Not with Sherlock. These are probably only his top four thoughts and the rest are swimming around the murky depths of his brain like Great White sharks.

"One, what happened that Jamie isn't telling us? Two, has Jamie got a history of mental health issues? Three, where's the other set of chopsticks gone? We used to have two sets and I like the others better." He frowns and I think he's going back into the kitchen to look for them.

"And four?" I put my head forward, catching his eye, encouraging him to keep his line of thought.

"Oh. Four. Four!" he grins widely at me and he turns to me and his hands go under my jumper before I can stop him. "Four is, can I fuck you on the sofa without your friend upstairs hearing it!" I'd like to protest but his long fingers on my nipples are playing havoc with my logical capacity. I hold them flat against me and try to look him in the eye.

"Sherlock, Sherlock!" he stops and looks at me with an innocent expression. Then he frowns and something in his demeanour changes.

"Oh. Am I not allowed to... is it too soon?" he sighs, he's utterly useless at pretending to be patient, even if it would be the kindest thing to do. I look at him. What was I going to say? Part of me is desperate to take the easy road out and say no, we can't do that, because it involves more closeness, more opening up and that might hurt.

The other part of me is hungry for him. Really hungry. Fuck it, I think. I know which part I want to win this battle. I pick my side.

"No, it's fine. It's good." I say and I kiss him. He stops kissing me back to cheer briefly. I roll my eyes. He is like a child sometimes. An oversexed, frighteningly intelligent, socially inappropriate toddler. It's great fun.

His hands are back under my jumper and I am trying hard to catch my breath. The electricity is thrumming over my skin and it feels like two months' worth of orgasms are building in my groin. In seconds I am hard and he stops and looks down at the reaction he's getting.

"Lovely. My favourite thing." He leers at me and lies over me, grinding his own erection against me and making me moan. I am just about to moan again when he slaps his hand over my mouth. I frown and he grinds against me again, his eyes boring into mine and I realise he is trying to indicate I should be quiet.

At that very moment I hear a footstep out in the hall and I push him off me frantically. He hears it too and we sit up, arranging our clothes and trying to look innocent. Sherlock snaps the TV on. I grab a cushion and position it over my obvious arousal. We are just in time because the door opens and Jamie is standing in his pyjamas on the threshold.

"Oh, hi." He smiles sheepishly. "Can I have a different pillow? This one's feather and I'm allergic?" he pulls an apologetic face, "sorry."

"No problem..." I am about to get up when I remember the hard on I am hiding behind the cushion. "They're in the airing cupboard in the bathroom." He nods.

"Thanks, night then." I smile and Sherlock waves. We sit facing the fireplace, neither of us speaking or breathing until we hear him going back upstairs. The bedroom door shuts. Sherlock clicks the TV off.

Sherlock pushes me back on the sofa and throws himself over me, thrusting at me with his hips. The friction is intense and I could come just like this, with both of us fully dressed. I don't want that. At all.

I snake my hands between us and start to unfasten my jeans. He feels the movement and sits back to watch. I suddenly feel very shy. His gaze is focussed on my fingers and they fumble as I feel him watching. It's another junction, another road where I could just take the escape route, but I am not a coward. I unfasten the last button and wriggle my jeans down over my hips. He looks up at me and beams.

"Shorts?" he whispers and I nod. I peel them down too. He sighs and runs his hand over me. We are both watching his long fingers, pale against my flushed, hard cock. He smoothes the flat of his thumb over my tip, smearing the clear liquid which is leaking from me in my excitement. His other hand moves along the base of me, sweeping up to meet his hand which covers the rest of my erection. His stroke is gentle, his hands soft. It feels amazing and it's amplified by the fact he is watching my reaction and I'm watching him too.

He squats back onto his haunches and pulls my jeans and my shorts off. He stands up on the sofa; wobbling slightly on the cushions, and unfastens his trousers. He balances on one leg to take one foot out of them and I giggle as he nearly falls. I put out a hand and he holds it, steadying himself as he removes the other leg. Then he lies back down over me and his skin feels like hot silk on my thighs as he wriggles between them.

We lie there moving gently against each other, panting. I reach around and grab his arse, pulling him closer to me. I moan and his eyes go wide. There is a creak from upstairs and we lie still, silent. He grinds against me and my eyes roll back and I try not to make a sound. He grins and I grin back.

After a few minutes of this, where I think we'll never get round to actual penetration because it all feels so good, he stops and feels under the sofa. For a second I think he's getting the bars and I can't decide if that's excitement or horror running through me. But his hand comes back with the lube.

He sits back and slicks us both with the clear, viscous substance. Then he lies over me and puts his hands under the back of my knees and slides me down to him. The movement brings me right where he wants me. He is poised against me.

"Now John," he whispers and I can see he's struggling to concentrate. "We're going to have to be very," he slips forward and I feel myself open against the pressure. "Very," another inch. I am on fire; every nerve is screaming pain/pleasure. "Quiet." He whispers and he is in me all the way. Pleasure wins through. I am struggling to breathe and my heart beat sounds so loud that I think you could hear it from Tower Bridge, never mind upstairs.

Another creak from upstairs and we stop. He is full in me and the throbbing and the blood rushing through me is more overwhelming than I can imagine. He grins and I sigh trying to express with my face how tortuous this is. After a second which feels like a year, he moves again.

Slowly, slowly he pulls back; I watch his face, his expression telling me just how much he is enjoying this. His eyes are wide and his mouth open as he hisses out his breath over his clenched teeth. I look down and see his stomach muscles tighten as he moves forward.

"Oh god." He whispers as he sees me watching him. He looks down too, we watch out bodies move together. The tension of going slow and the exquisite pleasure that effort is creating is building to a crescendo. He starts to shudder. Normally by now he would be frantic, ploughing into me and taking me with him on his wave of orgasm but this time it's all slow and it's fabulous torture.

He is shaking and I know he's going to come. He looks right into me as he slides forward again. I arch underneath him and he closes his eyes and hisses. I feel him start to buck, tiny thrusts which drive him deeper. I see him open his eyes and I see him drag his breath in, his chest heaving and his stomach muscles tensing.

His hand lifts from my knee where he's bracing himself and he starts to touch my cock. Long gentle strokes which contrast with the hard feeling of him inside me. It turns me inside out entirely.

"Oh. Oh John, oh my god. Oh. My. God." He whispers just before he starts to come. I can't help but follow him. I suck in a deep breath, intending not to make a noise, but a loud groan starts from my chest. Sherlock's other hand locks over my mouth as he thrusts, taking advantage of my inability to make a noise, to push into me as hard as he can as he comes. I bite down on his fingers, trying to stifle my cries. He pushes against me one last time and I feel myself tumble over the edge.

"Sherlock, oh my god, I love you fucking me Sherlock Holmes." I mumble against his hand, feeling slightly less inhibited because I know he can't hear me.

He falls over me and we lie there, breathing. He starts to giggle and I laugh too. Soon we are nearly hysterical. He snorts and I put my hand over his mouth. He snorts again and I have tears falling down my face. We lie there laughing until I need to sit up, I can't breathe.

As I pull my jeans back on, bunching my shorts into a ball and stuffing them into my pocket I look at the coffee table. It is littered with magazines. I pick one up. The title is 'Bound and Gagged' the cover is a muscled man who is dressed in nothing but what the title suggests. I glance at the other magazines.

"Erm. What's this Sherlock?" he is wiping down the sofa cushion with a wet wipe and he looks over with curiosity.

"Gay porn." He says and goes back to the wiping. I frown.

"Why are there..." I count, "twelve gay porn magazines on the coffee table?" He looks me, blue eyes wide.

"Well, I thought if the video didn't work..." he shrugs and gathers them up and shoves them under the sofa with the lube. I wonder if Jamie saw them. Oh god. He is still looking at me and grinning. "by the way, I love fucking you too John Watson." Oh my god.

**Ok, so chapter two... what do we think? Do we like Jamie? How are Sherlock and John going to keep quiet? **** Please send me a review and let me know how this went for you.**

**As always thank you to The Baker St Irregulars! It's been great to have ypour comments on this new adventure : PrincessNala and Peachsilk, Darmed, Clubba Bear, Tasty- Kate – is it wrong that I plan to keep you busy?, 2cajuman2, Tanya Zsa Zsa, Munchiees!, Aelfric's cat, Nellyington – yay new laptop! , mrs winny, Despairandcupcakechild, Mouserjb4 ,Tillif and Harpyquin and Jazzysatindoll – couch ouch! Lucky, lucky me to know you!**

**As always love to the OHOB and the wife. Cxx**


	3. A Plan of Action

I sleep on the sofa which is just another reason to wish I'd told Jamie the truth about things with Sherlock. My neck has a crick and when I am awoken by Sherlock moving my legs so he can sit down I'm not happy.

"Hey!" I grumble as I feel him settle himself down on the sofa and drop my legs back over his knees. I open my eyes and see a cup of coffee hovering dangerously in front of my face.

"Morning!" Sherlock grins, waggling the coffee so that it sloshes about alarmingly. I put out my hands to catch the mug.

"Couldn't you have sat over there?" I ask, hitching myself up into a half sitting position. Sherlock is still grinning.

"I could, but then I wouldn't be able to do this." He reaches under the blanket which covers my legs and gropes me. To my embarrassment I have that morning half hard on already. "Is this for me?" he chuckles. I really want to protest and be annoyed but his fingers are playing havoc with my ability to frown.

"Oh, oh...stop it." I have to admit, even to me it sounds like a feeble objection. He frowns questioningly.

"Really? You really want me to stop doing this?" he does that flicking thing with his thumb. I jerk up and the coffee spills near the edge of the mug. With his free hand he takes it from me, puts it on the floor and then puts both hands under the blanket. His hands are busy and he's watching me with interest.

"Did you know that the high levels of testosterone and the effect of REM is responsible for most morning erections?" he asks me seriously as I gasp in rhythm with his hands.

"Sherlock, Jamie...oh, uh, Jamie!" he nods like he understands my concern, like his hands aren't bringing me to orgasm as we chat.

"In the bathroom, busy for about another," he removes his hand and actually checks his watch. "Another four minutes I think. Hurry up John!" his fingers increase their pressure and intensity, pumping me hard with his fist. My hips are thrusting and I am growling in my throat as he watches me grinning. I can't stop him and I can't stop myself.

He licks one hand and slicks it down me, fast and firm and I come.

"Bloody hell, oh god. Sherlock!" he whips his hands away and passes me a wet wipe from the table. He's still grinning as he replaces my coffee in my shaking hands.

"Six minutes, not bad John." he chuckles and goes and sits on the green armchair just as I hear the bathroom door opening. "I think it's time you tell Jamie about us, don't you?" he raises one eyebrow and sips his coffee innocently. Did he just do that to make a point? Oh god.

Jamie wanders into the lounge; his hair is flat on one side where he has been sleeping.

"Morning guys. Thanks for the bed John; did you sleep ok on the sofa? You look knackered." I sigh and sit up, wrapping the blanket around me.

"I'm just going to brush my teeth, have a wash. What are you up to today Jamie?" he shakes his head.

"Dunno, I thought I might just hang out here. If that's ok with you?" I nod, thinking about my own plans for the day. I look at Sherlock who is grinning over his coffee at me.

"I've got to go out John, probably be back after a couple of hours. Will you be in the bathroom long? Using the shower?" he arches a brow and I shake my head at him. I know what he means; he's going to sexually harass me until I tell Jamie. He's a monster. I'm still shaking my head as I leave the lounge. I lock the bathroom door.

Today's plans throw up more reasons to tell Jamie about us. Laura and Art are coming over to help me plan Sherlock's birthday party. If Jamie doesn't know by the time those two have finished then the party is definitely going to alert him to the truth of the situation. It gives me three days to sort it out. The only problem is how do I bring it up? I've as good as denied it to him and changed the subject when he asked about Sherlock's sexuality. I spend most of the time in the bathroom thinking of possible ways to tell him. By the time I'm done I'm none the wiser.

Sherlock is outside when I open the door and he pushes me back against the door but I manage to slip under his arm and he laughs as I run up the stairs to my room.

I get dressed, Jamie's things are thrown over a chair and he really hasn't got much with him. I go downstairs and he's already dressed and is making toast. He passes me a plate.

"Look, I've got some friends coming round this afternoon." He nods and spreads some jam on his toast. "And, well... it's Sherlock's birthday on Thursday and we're having a party but it's a surprise. Laura and Art are coming to help me plan the last things." Jamie smiles and touches his finger to the side of his nose.

"It's safe with me," he winks, "what's this Laura like then?" I sigh. This is going to be an interesting afternoon. How do I answer that question? I purse my lips.

"Erm... well she's another posh one, titled actually." Jamie whistles and grins. "And she's... well, you'll see." He pulls a face like he's scared by my description and I laugh. "You'll see." I say as Sherlock walks in.

"Right, I'm off!" he announces as he puts on his scarf and coat. He comes towards me in three quick strides and I panic. What's he doing? His face is right by mine when he leans past me and picks up his wallet. He waves it at me. "Ok, I'll be back later. Shall I text when I set off?" I nod numbly, I think I'm shaking. He frowns. "Where's my phone?" I shrug.

"Never mind. I'll see you later." He grins and leaves the flat I cross to the window and watch him walk down the street. He turns and blows a kiss, I shake my head and he laughs.

"He's a one eh?" Jamie is chuckling to himself and I smile.

"Yeah, he is. Look Jamie I need to talk to you anyway..." he turns and raises his eyebrows, sits down at the kitchen table. I sit down opposite to him and chew my toast, stalling for time.

"Go on..." he prompts. I swallow and run my hand over my face. My phone rings. I pick it up and the screen says 'G Lestrade'. I connect the call.

"Hi John, you alright?" Lestrade sounds concerned and I know he's been talking to Sherlock about me. He's even invited me out to the pub a few times.

"Yeah, yeah, just tired." He laughs.

"Sherlock keeping you up?" I grin wearily.

"Mmm, you could put it like that." He laughs again and I glance at Jamie, wondering if he can hear both sides of the conversation. He is reading the paper and doesn't seem to be listening.

"Lucky bastard." Lestrade laughs and he sounds like he means it. "Anyway, just phoning to check Sherlock's party's still on?"

"Yep, yes it is. About half eight ish?"

"Do you need me to bring anything?"

"I don't know yet, I've got some friends coming round to work out the last details today, I'll text you if there's anything. Is that ok?"

"Yeah fine. I'm actually looking forward to it. Should be a laugh. Are you sure he doesn't know? How on earth have you kept a secret from him?" I nod to myself.

"Well, if he does know he isn't saying anything. Which isn't like him." Lestrade laughs again and I hear someone talking in the background.

"True, true. Right, anyway I'd better go John. See you on Thursday then? Let me know if I should bring anything."

"Ok I will. See you later Geoff." He rings off and Jamie puts the paper down. I remember what I was just going to say.

"So John? You were just going to say..?" I get up and fill my coffee cup and wash my plate.

"Yes, sorry. I was. Well, Jamie, I wanted to just clear up..."

"Helloooo?" it's Art, he's already in the lounge and his head pops around the door. "Hi John, are we early? I persuaded Laura to leave the Audi and catch a cab but she always sets off earlier than she needs to so she can park." He rolls his eyes and Laura emerges behind him. She slaps him on the arm.

"Well if someone," she slides her eyes to Art, "had been paying attention instead of eyeing up the cabdriver..." Art laughs and holds his hands up like he's surrendering and Laura laughs too.

Art has on his grey leather jeans; the material is so soft and matt that it looks like shark skin. His black t shirt and his grey suit jacket perfectly accompany his grey trilby hat. He is dressed on a Monday morning the way most people dress on a Saturday night.

Laura is in tight blue jeans and knee high boots. She takes off her short leather jacket, voluminous scarf and sunglasses to reveal a cropped furry sweater. She drapes the jacket and scarf on the kitchen chair and perches the glasses in front of her piled up hair do. I look at Jamie who hasn't said a word. His mouth is open. Oh dear.

"Who's this?" Art asks advancing on Jamie. Jamie actually scoots his chair back, the feet screech on the floor. Art laughs, "Oh I don't bite." I'm waiting for his inevitable next line but it doesn't come. Wow, he's actually caught on to Jamie's low level homophobia; I'm impressed with his perception.

"This is Jamie; he's a friend of mine from the army. He's staying for a couple of weeks." Laura looks at me over Jamie's shoulder, she raises her eyebrows.

Jamie shakes Art's hand. Bless him, he's trying. Art looks stunned.

"Hi, Art? Nice to meet you. Hope I'm not in the way for party planning?" he glances to Laura who shakes her head.

"The more the merrier." She smiles warmly, I can see Jamie melting. "Speaking of the birthday boy, what've you done with him?"

"What hasn't he done wi..." I shake my head at Art, he snaps his mouth shut.

"Have you got any Earl Grey?" Laura is looking in the tea jar. I shake my head and she twists up her mouth. "Oh, I just fancied an Earl Grey." She shrugs.

"I can nip out and get some?" Jamie offers and Laura smiles at him again. Poor bloke. I fish my wallet out of my pocket and hand him a fiver.

"Here, I think we need some milk too." He smiles.

"Yeah, Sherlock mentioned that when you were in the bathroom." I sigh and roll my eyes. Jamie puts on his coat and leaves the flat. Laura sits down and folds her arms.

"What's going on? Doesn't he know about you and Sherlock?" I shake my head and Art looks surprised.

"Why not? Didn't you tell him? I don't understand." Art sighs and drinks the rest of my coffee. I sit down next to him, opposite Laura.

"God what a mess. I didn't tell him last night. I suppose I was worried what he'd think, I know I know," I shake my head as both Laura and Art look at me reproachfully. "It all happened so fast and then... well, oh I don't know..."

"Well it'll totally ruin the party if you two are sneaking about all night avoiding Jamie." Trust Art to think of the party.

"Art, Sherlock and John weren't going to be fucking on the coffee table at this party you know." I raise an eyebrow; we've never fucked on the coffee table. It's not big enough. Art looks at me in surprise.

"They're not? Oh, well..." he pushed the cup away in mock disgust. "Then I'm not coming." He folds his arms and we laugh. Then he frowns.

"No really, John you're going to have to tell him. Do you think he'll be weird about it?" I shrug, I have no idea.

"Well, I don't think he knows any out gay people." I am trying to think of anyone we both know who might fit the bill. "Apart from Harry, but I don't think she counts. He doesn't know her really. He did ask me if Sherlock was queer though."

"Queer? Did he use that word?" Laura asks and looks at Art. I nod. "Hmm. Well, if he's staying here then I think you have to tell him, before he works it out. That'd be worse." I nod miserably; I hate this, being painted into a corner. All of a sudden I feel mutinous and sulky.

"Why should I have to say anything? It's nothing to do with him? I wouldn't have to say anything if I was straight." Art grins and I realise what I have just said.

"There's hope for me yet, soldier boy." He winks at me, I know he's teasing but I still feel flattered.

"Right, I'll tell him. Just not right now eh? Let's get this party sorted and then I'll make sure I get chance to tell him before hand." Art smiles and looks into the lounge.

"You're going to need a bigger coffee table." he grins and I laugh.

Jamie comes back with tea for Laura and we've already got the laptop on the table and Art is googling the caterers we've booked so he can phone them and make sure they've got everything we need. I've phoned the cleaner and they're coming on Wednesday.

"I offered to have it at my house," Laura is telling Jamie who is hanging on her every word. "But I think it'll be nicer here. More intimate and I don't think there's lots of people coming, is there John?" I count on my fingers knowing that there aren't many people that Sherlock would want to attend.

"There'll only be about ten of us I think." I say, "More of a dinner party really." Art looks up from his googling.

"Have you got RN on the list? I'm bringing RN." Jamie frowns and no one explains because we don't want to tell him that RN stands for 'Rubber Nazi', Art's current boyfriend, or victim. I'm not entirely sure that even Art knows his real name. God, I really have to tell Jamie before the party.

"Will he be in uniform darling?" asks Laura sweetly. Art shrugs.

"Is he in the forces?" ask Jamie with interest.

"Sort of," Laura smiles.

"Have we sorted out the alcohol?" I ask hastily. Laura nods.

"Rose has it all organised. She's got in touch with a marvellous man who sources for Daddy. He's an angel and he won't charge us for half of the case of fizz."

"Will there be some beer?" asks Jamie, frowning, "us soldiers have simple tastes." He grins at Art, he's learning. Art giggles flirtatiously and Jamie looks a bit alarmed.

"Yes I've got Sherlock's favourite ale too; I don't think he likes champagne." I say as I tick off another item of the list.

We all hear the door downstairs bang and it's like a sit com as we rush about. Laura shoves the list into her bag; Art switches off and snaps down the laptop lid, I move the number of the cleaner off the table. Jamie is laughing.

"It's not funny," hisses Laura smiling, "we're trying to hide something from Sherlock! Have you any idea how hard..." the door opens and the mad man in questions hurricanes into the room.

"Laura, Art, what a pleasant surprise." He eyes us all suspiciously. "What's going on?"

A phone rings. We all look relieved and then attempt to disguise the fact because Sherlock is looking at us all with a cold glare. He's still glaring so it takes me a minute to realise that it's my phone ringing.

"Hi?" I look at the rest of them. Laura starts to talk to Sherlock and Jamie goes and sit on the sofa and reaches for the remote control. It slips out of his hand and hits the table. The back comes off and the batteries fall out onto the floor. He catches one but the other rolls away under the sofa. Things seem to slow down as I try to register that it is Lestrade who is calling me but I watch in terror as Jamie reaches under the sofa for the lost battery. He is fumbling about, I can see his arm reaching this way and that but the angle of his body and the low frame of the sofa are preventing him from getting his hand any further. He kneels down to reach better.

In an instant Sherlock is there, smiling broadly at me as he sweeps down beside Jamie and conjures the battery from the depths of the sofa. Jamie smiles and fits them back into the remote. Sherlock winks at me. My heart stops beating in my ears and I can focus on Lestrade.

"John? You ok? John!"

"Sorry Geoff. Just narrowly averted a disaster. Sorry."

"Oh. Right then. Well, I just rang to see if you two wanted to come to the pub tomorrow night? There's a gig on at the World's End in Camden if you fancied it?" I look at Sherlock who is sitting next to Jamie and seems to be ruining a TV show by explaining exactly who committed the crime in question, seven years ago, even though he's only watched about a minute of it. Jamie is looking at Sherlock in horror. It might do us all some good to get out of the flat, I think.

I wander through to the kitchen so as not to be over heard.

"Geoff that sounds great. I've got a mate staying with us though. Yeah I'll bring him but... well, he doesn't know about me and Sherlock." I hold the phone away while Lestrade laughs. "Thanks, yes. Very funny. No, I am going to tell him I just haven't yet. So, look just be... yeah I know. I know, you're a police officer." I laugh; Lestrade's tone indicates he finds all this hysterical. "So what time? Right. Great. See you there then."

When I go back into the room Laura is perched on Sherlock's side of the sofa and Art is on the arm by Jamie. They're all listening to Sherlock who looks like he's loving an audience.

"So it's pretty obvious that it's not her, because she's short sighted. And it's not him because he's not even related; they'll find that out in the end, so it must be those two. The monks!" he points with one long finger and all the other three nod even though their expressions show they have no idea what he's talking about. He's like that sometimes, mesmeric.

He stands up now he's completely explained the story, and walks into the kitchen grabbing my arm as he passes me. He pushes me against the table.

"Look, stop it! Sherlock. I mean it." I put my hands up and push him away.

"Have you told him? No you haven't; have you? Why not?" his hands play over my jumper and he zones in on my nipples even through the cable knit. How does he do that? I slap them away and he grins.

"I'm going to; I just haven't had a minute. Laura and Art turned up and then..." I realise I just nearly divulged what we have been doing and he grins wider and cocks his head. It's like being notice by a T Rex. "We were talking..." I continue badly covering up my mistake. "And then you came home so I've had no time." He nods as though he understands but his fingers are back circling my erogenous zones. It feels good and he knows it. Cocky bastard.

Laura and Art order food in and we all eat crowded around the table. I avoid Sherlock's fingers on my leg and end up getting confused when Art joins in the game and those two laugh at me hysterically until Jamie asks what's wrong and we all shut up. They're like two year olds. Then Laura and Art stay just long enough to see that Sherlock was right about a film Jamie's started watching. They leave arguing about catching the tube. I don't think Laura does the tube and Art is convinced she should try it. They are laughing as they leave and when they've gone the flat seems much quieter.

"They're a bit mad." Laughs Jamie as we hear the front door slam. I nod and smile. Sherlock is poking something in a test tube and holding it up to the lamp, peering at the contents.

There's a knock at the door and Mrs. Hudson puts her head in.

"Oh hello boys." She smiles in a motherly fashion, "brought a friend home?" oh my god she's in her 'tolerate the gay boys' mode. She probably thinks she's being the height of cool by not mentioning the threesome we've obviously been having. Jesus.

"Mrs. Hudson, this is Jamie. Jamie's a friend of mine from the army." Her eyes go wide and she nods and I realise I haven't actually allayed her first impressions. She probably thinks we have the rest of the Village People in a cupboard. Sherlock decides not to help.

"Yes we're sorry if it's a bit noisier than usual but you know, three young men gadding about up here." He grins. Thanks Sherlock. Mrs Hudson blushes and giggles.

"Well, you have fun boys." She giggles again. I look at Jamie who is just smiling blankly; this is going right over his head. I almost feel sorry for him. Mrs. Hudson goes out and shuts the door but not after she's winked at me. God.

"I'm going to have a bath I think." I announce, stretching. Sherlock looks at me carefully.

"I've got some reading I want to do in my room." he says, about as subtle as a brick through a window. I glare at him over Jamie's head. He grins wickedly.

"Ok, night then. I'll sleep down here tonight John. You have the bed mate. Thanks." I get his pillows and the spare duvet.

I start to run the bath and go and get a clean towel from the laundry basket. When I come back to the bathroom Sherlock is behind the door. He pounces.

"Hey!" I whisper, "What are you doing? I thought you were reading?" he rolls his eyes at how stupid I am.

"You don't think I can really read in there when I know you're," he runs his hand over my crotch, "in here, naked and steamy?" he looks at me as though, by not inviting him in, I have violated one of his basic human rights. I sigh, probably because the stroking hand has got me hard. He steps back and looks down at his handiwork. He grins.

"You just get undressed and get in the bath and I'll just...watch." he holds his hands up to show he's behaving. Like hell. I shake my head but it's more with defeat and I take off my shoes and socks. He sits down on the toilet lid, crosses his legs and leans his chin on his hand. The intensity of his gaze is unnerving. I take off my jumper and sigh, trousers next and any hope I had of pretending not to be turned on will go right out of the window. I look at him, he raises his eyebrows.

I unfasten my jeans and pull them down, taking my shorts with them. There's no point in being coy anyway, I am painfully hard. I stand there and look at him. He licks his lips and smiles out of one side of his mouth.

"Shall I give you a hand with that?" he asks grinning. Take the initiative Watson, says my inner drill sergeant. Yes sir!

"No Sherlock, you can get your mouth on it though." His eyes widen and he licks his lips again. Then he drops to the floor.

He wastes absolutely no time in smoothing those pointed lips over me. I try not to moan and grab the wall of the bathroom as he swallows me. The feeling of him slippery and tight around me makes me realise that, electric as this feels, this is not how I want to come. He runs his teeth over me and I grab his head and push him down. He chuckles against me and the feel of the vibrations is amazing. I pull him away, watching his reddened lips slicking back over my engorged flesh. He looks up at me, his pupils huge but his eyebrows quizzical.

"What?" he whispers.

"Take these off." I say pulling him to his feet and tugging at his trousers. He grins and does as I asked. He's hard too and I can't help putting my hands on him, pumping him with my fist, hard for a few strokes. He grabs my shoulders, almost off his toes and gasps. "Turn around." He turns and leans against the wall, I spread his legs and he moans. "Shh." I whisper and he nods.

There's baby oil in the medicine cabinet, god knows what for, and there's only a third of a bottle left. I hope I'm not going to do any damage to us if I use it but Sherlock sees the bottle and he doesn't say anything so I guess it's safe. I spill it over me and slick my fingers with the rest.

I open him with my fingers and push and pull steadily until he is shaking. There's a strange bulge inside him and when I touch it his whole body goes rigid and it's not until I see his face I realise that I haven't hurt him. I stroke the bulge again and he pants and gasps. I move my fingers and, holding my clean hand over his mouth, push into him all the way with one stroke. He shudders against me and I feel his hot breath over my fingers.

"God Sherlock, you're so fucking tight like this." I tell him and I see the reaction to my words on his face. His eyes roll back as I pull out of him and thrust back. The warmth which has started to build in my groin is blocking out everything else but the feel of his muscles clenched around me. With the oiled hand I grab his cock and I mirror my thrusts with my hand movements. He is bucking, almost too hard for me to hold him still.

"Behave Sherlock. I want to feel you come for me." each word is a thrust. He makes a small mewling sound against my hand. It's so erotic, so desperate that I start to come. I hammer into him, I know he's not hurting because he's pushing back and this gives me a license to follow my body's reactions.

"Oh god. Fucking hell. Sherlock." I come, I feel myself releasing inside him, feel him clench around me as he comes in my hand. He leans back on me and I edge out of him.

"Oh." he half winces, half smiles.

"Sorry did I?" I am just about to ask if he's ok when I notice the bath. The water has reached the brim and is just about to spill over and bring down Mrs. Hudson's ceiling. "Fuck!"

"Everything ok John?" Jamie shouts from outside. "Do you need anything?" Sherlock giggles and I glare at him.

"No, I'm fine, just fell asleep in the bath and slipped down!" I laugh, hoping he will go away.

"No worries mate. If you're not out in an hour I'll give you a knock and wake you up!" He chuckles as he walks back to the lounge.

"Can I get in too? I'm a bit messy." asks Sherlock eyeing the water at meniscus level. I roll my eyes.

**So, more fun? John's going to have to tell him isn't he? Sherlock's having way too much fun with this! Are you? Let me know how you feel it's going. The ghost makes an appearance next... **

**Ah my Baker St Irregulars! I really can't tell you how great it is to wake up your kindness in my inbox. You make my morning's so much brighter : PrincessNala (for BC yumminess) and Peachsilk (for being a LJ angel and for care packages to the wilds of the south!), Darmed (how are you doing?), Clubba Bear, Tasty- Kate ,2cajuman2, Tanya Zsa Zsa, Munchiees!, Aelfric's cat, Nellyington, mrs winny, Despairandcupcakechild, Mouserjb4 ,Tillif and Harpyquin and Jazzysatindoll,thegeekyprincess and Flabagash! I feel honoured to have you reading my stuff. **

**As always love to the OHOB and the wife. Cxx**


	4. The Spectre

I lie in my bed, my body relaxed and rested and a bit achy. God he's insatiable. I smile to myself and shake my head remembering his reply when I said that to him earlier in the bath. He made me sit taps end.

"John, it's been two months! Can you imagine, well yes of course you can because it was two months for you too but, two months! For me! With this!" he taps his forehead viciously. I look alarmed. We're trying to be quiet but sometimes he gets over excited.

"Sorry," he whispers looking at the door like Jamie might appear at any moment and catch us in the bath. I can't even think about that. "Sorry, but can you imagine?" He repeats, eyes wide, hair slicked back from the water. I frown. I can actually.

"I kept thinking about you and wondering what was wrong, well I knew what was wrong, but I kept thinking of other things it might be too. Maybe you'd got bored with me?" I laugh and he scowls. "You might have! Or maybe we were never going to do it again." _It_? Oh, _it_! He's like a public schoolboy sometimes and I think that's what is such a turn on when he says those terrible things to me.

"Yes well, I thought all of that, over and over, all the bloody time. It was hell." He sighs and looks at me like it's all my fault, then remembers it wasn't and smiles at me apologetically.

"Well, you never said anything." I protest. He shakes his head and plays with the bubbles on the surface of the water. He insisted on bubbles. It's probably his Nanny's fault, I think.

"What was I going to say? You were obviously very upset. The dreams had come back, oh I don't know. Anyway, I was left with this." He points down to his now, thankfully limp, penis and then up to his brain. "And this!" his eyes are wild, trying to express the torture. I nod. I can see his point.

"So," he sits back in the water and I watch it slop over the edge and wince. He glances casually over the side and shrugs. "So, yes. I suppose I am a little...enthusiastic now we're back at it." I chuckle at his phrasing.

"Yes Sherlock, you're very enthusiastic." He grins.

"You aren't complaining are you?" he mock pouts.

"No, no. Not complaining. Not at all." We smile at each other and he rubs soap onto my foot which he captures with his hands. I feel them work up my ankle and interrupt him. "But no more eh? Not tonight. I don't think I can cope."

"Oh." He drops the foot now there's no need to be affectionate. I sigh and smirk.

"Baby oil? Was that ok? It was just spur of the moment..." he grins.

"Mmm. I know. Well it's ok this once because we're in the bath now but, as a rule, let's stick to lube. Oil can harbour germs more easily. But we're washing now so that's ok." I nod; relieved I haven't committed some huge anal sex faux pas. Did I just say that? God.

So, here I am in bed just thinking, about him, about the party, about how I'm going to tell Jamie that...

"!" the cry is bloodcurdling. Adrenaline flushes through me and I leap out of bed in an instant.

The screaming is coming from the lounge. I burst through the door and arrive to see Sherlock standing in the doorway and Jamie standing at the window, staring down onto the street. He is in his pyjama bottoms and his bare chest is pale in the yellow streetlight. He is shaking and his eyes are fixed on Baker St.

"What is it?" I push past Sherlock and go to Jamie. I touch his arm and he flinches, his eyes unseeing as he stares down onto the street below. For a moment I think he's dreaming, having those nightmares that those of us who share a past are so familiar with. But he turns to me; he is biting his lip, trying not to cry although tears are pouring down his face. I pull him into a hug without thinking.

"Shhh, it's ok, whatever it is, it's ok now." I soothe as his body is wracked with sobs. Sherlock is at the window looking out onto the night.

"Was it the ghost Jamie?" he asks brusquely. I glare at him; can't he see that Jamie is broken up by what he has seen? Sherlock frowns and goes to put the kettle on. It's the English answer to everything.

He comes back with mugs of tea and hands one to me. I have lowered Jamie down to sit him on the sofa. He is still shaking; his face in his hands like he's ashamed of what he's seen. We sit in silence until he calms down. Then Sherlock asks him again.

"Was it the ghost?" he nods and wipes his eyes.

"Sorry, sorry guys. I didn't mean to wake you. I was just awake and couldn't get back off to sleep and I thought I'd look at the street. Sometimes just occupying the brain makes it easier to go to sleep you know?" we nod. "Anyway I was just watching the cars, the people going home and then there he was..." he sniffs.

"Freddy?" Sherlock asks, his hands clasped under his chin, his eyes bright. Jamie nods and looks at me. It is a hollow stare, full of nothing. I put out my hand and touch his knee. He smiles gratefully, his mouth twisted up.

"He was under the streetlight, by the cafe. Just looking up at the flat." Sherlock goes to the window and looks up and down the street. Then, despite the fact he's wearing shorts, a t shirt and that bloody dressing gown he goes outside. I watch him through the window, crossing the road and looking around the lamp post and then up and down the street.

"I thought I was safe here John. I'm sorry I've brought it here." Jamie sips his tea. I shake my head.

"You're better off here mate, Sherlock will solve this." He looks at me, he looks worn out.

"Really? You really think he can, John?"

"He's done things I can't even begin to explain to you Jamie. He will solve it." He looks at me for a long minute.

"You and he... you're close aren't you? I've not seen you like this with a civilian." He looks thoughtful. "I suppose it's the things you go through with a person which makes you close eh? Harry said you two had been in some scrapes." This is it, the time to tell him. Come clean.

"Yes, we're close. Really close..." Sherlock appears back at the door and frowns and I think it's at me. Confusing his expression I shut up, doesn't he want me to tell Jamie? I thought he did. "What?" I ask him, he shakes his head. I lose my train of thought. Damn.

"Does anyone mind if I make some toast?" Jamie stands up and makes for the kitchen, he's still shook up but I know from past experience that, when he's upset, he likes to occupy himself.

"I'll have some, thanks." Says Sherlock sitting down next to me and frowning.

"What?" I mouth and he looks at me and shakes his head.

Jamie comes back with Sherlock's toast. He smiles as he passes it over.

"So, how are you going to help me Sherlock? Any good with ghosts?" Sherlock smiles thinly.

"No previous experience but that means nothing. I know something significant already." He bites the toast. I look at him incredulously.

"You do? What?" he shakes his head and speaks with his mouth full.

"Can't say yet. Let me have some time." I sigh and sit back on the sofa and watch him eat. Jamie brings his toast in and sits in the armchair; I pass him his tea mug.

"What's that?" Sherlock is pointing to a tattoo on Jamie's left shoulder blade which has been made visible by the street light as he stretches. Jamie looks over his shoulder.

"Regimental tattoo. Me and the boys had it done when we got back." He grins and bites his toast, he seems to have been distracted from the shock even thought the streaks down his face are testament to his crying.

"A red star? John, you haven't got one, have you?" He gets up and touches Jamie's shoulder as though he's fascinated. I don't like the strange feeling I get in the pit of my stomach from watching him gently run those long fingers over Jamie's muscle.

"No, John's not got one. Wrong regiment. Did you lot ever get that tattoo you had planned?" I laugh.

"George and the dragon? No we never did. We kept planning it though." Sherlock looks at me with interest.

"Where were you going to have it?" he asks, his eyes twinkling. I scratch my ear.

"Erm... on my hip. Well, that's where we all decided anyway." Sherlock's eyes drop to my hip and he bites his lip. His expression is almost indecent and I am glad we haven't put the light on and that Jamie is drinking his tea.

"Didn't you have a motto too? Something from the Royal Fusiliers' creed?"

"Yes. 'I will defend my country's freedoms with respect and integrity'." I quote smiling, remembering when we chose that line. Jamie nods.

"It's a good one." he smiles and I realise what we have seen together, what we've been through and what he said about the closeness that brings. Suddenly I feel an overwhelming rush of emotion about this bloke. We have to help him.

"Are you feeling better?" I ask, "Do you want to bunk in my room?" He nods, a little embarrassed. Sherlock gets up and stretches. He takes the plates and mugs and puts them in the kitchen and we get up to go back to bed.

As I follow Jamie up the stairs, he's carrying the pillows and I have his duvet I look back and Sherlock is standing at the foot of the stairs, watching us. I smile and he bites the side of his mouth, smiles fleetingly and goes to his room.

As I settle back into bed, Jamie is on the floor on a carry mat and some cushions; I wonder what Sherlock was thinking as he watched us go upstairs. Surely he isn't jealous? I've seen his possessive streak but he must understand that Jamie and I have been though life and death together and that changes people, brings them to a more intimate relationship? I don't know what he's thinking but, as I drift off to sleep, I hear the sound of the laptop booting up in the lounge.

The next day proves pretty uneventful apart from the fact that, before we go out with Lestrade, Sherlock tries to get me into his bedroom.

"John! John! Can you just give me a hand with this chest of drawers?" He is shouting as I come out of my room. I'm feeling brave and wearing the jumper with the red stripe for the first time since I bought it. It looks good with the grey slim leg trousers which are also on their first outing. I go into Sherlock's room frowning as I try to work out what he's doing with the furniture.

He looks me over as I come in and his glance is lustful. I'm confused because he's nowhere near the chest of drawers. In fact he's on the bed, naked but for the blue dressing gown, arms behind his head and grinning.

"You look _nice_." He says as he kneels up and prowls, because there's no other word for it, to the end of the bed where he rests his head on the metal bedstead. The dressing gown isn't fastened particularly tightly and I notice what probably was the real reason for his calling me in here.

"Sherlock." My voice is warning and he grins and widens his big eyes, innocence personified. Apart from the hard on. "Sherlock..." He beckons me with a finger. Like I'm attached to a thread I find myself walking towards him.

"Good boy." He chuckles. "Now, give me a hand with this..." he drops his gaze to his lap, grins and raises his voice for Jamie to hear. "..._Chest of drawers_." I sigh and shake my head laughing.

"How did that happen?" I nod in the direction of his hard cock. He shrugs like it's nothing to do with him.

"Well all I was thinking was, I wonder what John's hip would look like with a tattoo and then my imagination slid sideways and..." he bites his lip and raises his eyebrows.

"What do you want me to do about it? I'm dressed. This jumper's new."

"So are the trousers." His glance is on my crotch. I nod.

"So, how can I help?" He pretends to think, steepling his hands and I laugh, I've seen him do that so many times.

"Well, you could kiss it better?" he looks hopeful. I glance back at the door; it's nearly closed and Jamie's in the shower. I push him back on the bed and pull back the dressing gown.

I put my mouth over him and lick the tip; he moans and fists his hands in my hair. I run my lips down the length of him and I feel him shudder. I trace my fingers over his balls and he arches off the bed. I smile around him. This isn't going to take long. I remember his comment about how it took me six minutes to come. Right, I think, I'll show you Holmes. I rake my teeth over his hard flesh and he groans my name.

I pull his balls with one hand and get the fingers on my other hand wet where my mouth has been on his cock. Then I push two inside him.

"Oh god, JohnJohnJohn oh god!" he comes, hard, flooding my mouth with salt and thrusting up at me. I pull back, grinning and wipe my mouth with my hand. I sit back on my heels and Sherlock pulls the robe over him and sits up.

"John? Can I borrow...?"I whip around and it's Jamie. He's standing in the doorway holding a pair of my socks. His eyes are wide.

"I think I've got the label out but it might still rub a little." Says Sherlock and I look and he has some scissors in his hands, where the hell did they come from? Label? What? Oh!

"Thanks, god, that was really annoying me." I rub the back of my neck and stand up and turn to face Jamie. He looks relieved. "Socks? Yeah, course you can." I leave the room in what I hope is a nonchalant fashion.

We meet Lestrade outside the Camden pub. I've not been here since my student days but it's not really changed. The paint might be different and the clientele younger than me on the whole but it's got the same ambience.

"Hiya." Lestrade smiles as we walk over the road to meet him. Sherlock jumps the railings to get to the pavement, Jamie follows him. I roll my eyes and walk the little way to the gap and come round that way. Lestrade is laughing.

"Geoff this is Jamie. Jamie this is Geoff Lestrade of Scotland Yard." Lestrade grins at the title and shakes Jamie's hand.

"You're a friend of John's right? From his army days? Staying with these two long?" he grins at us. Jamie smiles at him, I think they're going to get along.

"Well, they've said I can stay for a couple of weeks which is good of them. They're helping me out with a problem." Lestrade nods.

"Well, Sherlock's your man for problems, whether that's solving them or causing them!" They both laugh and Sherlock pulls a face and makes his way to the bar.

The pub's crowded but people seem to part their way to let Sherlock through. He orders his ale and then Murphy's for me. They only have Guinness and I get to the bar and hear him agreeing to have that instead.

"Geoff? Jamie?" he looks over his shoulder.

"Director's please." Jamie says looking down the bar at the selection of beers, Lestrade nods.

"Same."

"And two pints of Director's." Sherlock smiles at the barmaid who's a young girl dressed in what appears to be a black Victorian dress. She's quite tall and as she turns to get the glasses I see the enormous platform patent boots she has on. Her long dyed hair is piled up on her head and she has pale make up on and lots of black eyeliner. She's looking at Sherlock like a lovesick puppy. "And one for yourself darlin'." he smiles. I look at him, surprised to hear a little Sydney Doyle from his lips. He winks at her and she blushes under her white make up. I shake my head and he grins.

"Bet the round costs less now." He looks smug. She comes back and gives him an over reasonable price. He gives her the money and she smiles. She looks like the sort of girl who hasn't smiled since she was fifteen. He's astonishing.

We find a table in the corner and manage to scavenge some chairs.

"Got any plans for your birthday Sherlock?" Lestrade asks him and I smile. We planned this, Sherlock's too smart not to notice if no one mentioned his birthday. Sherlock drinks his pint and licks his lips.

"Well, John and I are going for lunch. But, not really, no." Lestrade nods.

"What do you want anyway? For a present? I've no idea." Sherlock drinks his drink again and looks at me.

"Well I'd like some vouchers. I know, not very exciting, but they're for a specialist shop that sells equipment which has become invaluable for my current experiment." He smiles at me slowly. Oh god. Lestrade's eyebrows are raised and he follows Sherlock's gaze to my red face.

"Ok, just send me the web address... I'm presuming it's an online shop?" Sherlock's eyes are twinkling.

"They do have an online store Geoff, but I might go to their London shop in person. John, will you come," he pauses, sips his drink leaving the last word hanging a little too long, "and help me carry the stuff?" I look at Jamie who is just innocently watching the conversation and then at Lestrade who is trying not to laugh.

"Yeah, sure. No problem." I drink my pint and glare at Sherlock who just smiles.

"So, what band are on?" Jamie asks looking over at where they've cleared a small stage and have just finished setting up sound equipment.

"I think they're like a synth band." Lestrade points to where a girl and four blokes are talking at the bar. The girl's hair is very black and has an asymmetrical fringe hanging over one eye. Her style is androgynous and skinny. The four blokes just look like blokes to me. They take the stage and start to play a haunting, sexy melody. The girl looks like she's nothing to do with them but I guess that's their 'look'. I glance at Sherlock but he's scanning the pub. Jamie and Lestrade are both beating out the rhythm of the song on their pint glasses, tapping their fingers softly. The girl takes the mike and begins to sing, she looks bored, like she's in her bedroom with a hairbrush, but her voice is amazing.

She soars over some pretty high notes and then her voice dips low in the chorus. I think the song's about desiring someone who you can't have, but I can't make out the words really. Sherlock's still scanning the crowd but he looks back to me as she finishes the song. She repeats the phrase 'I hear you coming in my sleep' and he smiles at me. It's a dark smile and it makes my stomach feel like it's filled with bubbles.

The band are just starting their next song, which sounds quite similar to the last one to me. Lestrade goes to get another round. People are enjoying the song so not many of the crowd are talking, just a quiet hum from the people right at the back of the room. Lestrade is setting down the tray with the four pint glasses when Jamie stands up, knocking Lestrade's hand and nearly upsetting the tray. Sherlock stands too, his hand flashes out to catch the falling glass before the beer is spilt. He is looking in the direction in which Jamie is staring, his face white.

I can't see anything so I stand up, people are beginning to complain about us but I see where Sherlock and Jamie are looking and it's Freddy Terry.

He stands by the door, his white blonde hair shorn and spiky. He's wearing combats on his top half and I can't see his feet because he's surrounded by people. His expression is blank, and he's just staring at us. There is no recognition of me in his face but the sight of him chills me to the marrow. He stands there for what seems like an eternity. He looks so real, so tangible. I look at Jamie who is crying, tears spilling down his cheeks, Sherlock is frowning.

After a moment Freddy turns and I see him open the door and leave. Something happens in my brain, some part of my own inner predator I guess, and I run out after him. I push people out of the way, deaf to their shouts and curses. I get outside and see the figure of the soldier crossing the road. I shout.

"Oi! Freddy! Freddy!" he turns slightly and begins to run. I give chase. I dash across the crowded Camden street, cabs honk and I nearly plough right through two cyclists. I carry on, feeling my muscles working fluidly and my heart rate increasing but still pumping at a healthy rate. I am still fit. The occasional sprint around the park and the exercise I get with Sherlock, running about London and the sex, have kept me limber. I exhilarate in the chase now. He is ahead of me but I'm confident I'll catch him.

He darts down an alley way and I screech to a halt and duck down the same dark passage. I see his white hair ahead in the gloom. Behind me I hear a sound, someone runs next to me, wide black coat flapping as he strides on his long legs, Sherlock. He grins and takes a fork in the alley pointing that I should continue to follow the ghost. I carry on running.

He rounds a corner and I increase my speed, feeling with an instinct I haven't used for a long time that the hunt is nearly over. The corner leads to a dead end. He is gone.

I put my hands on my knees panting now I know I don't have to run anymore but a noise from the alley parallel to mine has my ears pricking.

"Look, pretty boy, just let go of the coat and give us the fucking wallet and you won't get hurt." Pretty boy? Coat? Sherlock! My mind makes the deduction but my body is already running. A door in the adjacent building is open and I slam through it, surprising the workers of a fast food restaurant as I hammer through their kitchen and out onto the restaurant floor. Diners look up as I sprint through and out of the front door. I turn left quickly and then slow down and put my head around the alley opening.

Sherlock is against the wall, four youths surround him and they have a hold of his coat. Sherlock has the other end and he isn't letting go. It's like a very unfair tug of war. I scan the alley for a weapon and there's a skip. Sticking out of it is a couple of feet of wooden skirting board, nails still emerging from the split open, gloss painted sides. I pad forward just as one of the youths gets a knife out of his pocket.

My heart is hammering but the world goes into slow motion, like it's dipped in treacle. It's a familiar sensation to me and one of my old training buddies used to say it was when 'the force' kicked in, he was a sci-fi fan.

Mystical science fiction or not, none of them hear me slide the skirting board from the plastic in the skip. In fact they don't hear me at all until I grab the nearest one.

"Evening." I smile. "You have a very small knife and I have a fucking, great big lump of wood. With nails in it." I poke the youth who I have by the jacket with the aforementioned nails. Not hard but enough for him to yelp.

"Now, I'd imagine that if the nails don't make a mess that tetanus will, is that right Sherlock?" He turns from the wall and grabs the coat which the other youths have let go of in their concern for their mate. Bless them. He is grinning broadly at me and I grin back. He nods.

"Oh yes, tetanus is awful. Nasty, nasty." He puts his coat back on and brushes it down. I nod.

"Thought so. In which case boys I think you might want to fuck off and leave my..." I grin wider and decide to really fuck with them, "my pretty boyfriend..." their expression is priceless, I wish I had a camera. "...alone." One of them runs and then all his friends follow. Sherlock laughs.

"My hero." He grins, seeming completely unconcerned by his brush with the criminal element. He pulls me close. "How can I _ever_ show you how grateful I am?" I laugh.

"Later, I'll think of something." I grope his arse and he grins.

"Where did our ghost go? I've never heard of a ghost running." I nod; I have thought the same thing.

We turn out of the alley and Sherlock points us in the right direction back to the pub.

"Was it Freddy, John? You knew him?" I nod.

"It bloody looked like him. No, it was him. Definitely." Sherlock frowns. "He wasn't a...?"

"A twin? No I've thought of that, he was an only child." He frowns again and we're back at the pub.

Jamie is looking shaken and Lestrade is just putting another round on the table. I sit down and drink the end of my last pint.

"No luck?" We both shake our heads. Jamie is pale and I think he's shaking.

"It's not a ghost Jamie, ghosts don't run. We'll solve this." I put my hand on his, it is ice cold. His eyes slide to mine and he looks like he might cry again.

"But he's dead John, we both know Freddy's dead."

**So, the ghost... what did you think? And did you like john's jumper? Don't have anal sex with baby oil it's not good for you and I felt duty bound to point that out! So will you let me know what you liked? What worked? What didn't?**

**Oh, and does anyone know where you can watch 'The Last Enemy' bloopers?**

**To the Baker St Irregulars! I honestly love you : PrincessNala (sorry I made you late) and Peachsilk (for constant support and general loveliness!), Darmed (how are you doing?), Clubba Bear, Tasty- Kate ,2cajuman2, Tanya Zsa Zsa, Munchiees!, Aelfric's cat (John says hi), Nellyington, mrs winny, Despairandcupcakechild, Mouserjb4 ,Tillif and Harpyquin and Jazzysatindoll,thegeekyprincess and Flabagash! You make my mornings so much happier with your reviews! **

**Love you OHOB and Reggie Cx**


	5. Gag Sex

We get back home and Jamie's still shook up despite my reassurances. I tell him to have my bed tonight, the windows don't show out onto the street and, short of the 'ghost' breaking into the flat, he'll be pretty safe.

"You sure mate?" he asks wearily and I tell him to go up, the sofa will be fine. As soon as he's gone I turn to Sherlock.

"Gag, bars, lube, your room. Ten minutes." He looks at me and I think I might actually have shocked him. I frown. "I thought I was being rewarded for being your hero?" he grins.

I drag the armchair to the window and look out onto the city street below. Things are rushing through my head, things I have to deal with, shelve and process before I can give my concentration to Sherlock and I want to really concentrate. I'm going to tell Jamie tomorrow and I want to take full advantage of this being the last time we have to have 'quiet sex'.

So, Freddy, ghost or no ghost? I'm guessing from his expression when he saw me across the pub floor that he didn't recognise me, that, combined with the fact that I can't imagine why a ghost would run away leads me to go for the no ghost option. But how can that be true? It was Freddy, I knew him well and there was nothing in that figure or face which suggested otherwise. I saw him, face on and I'm certain of it. I shake my head. None of this makes sense. Freddy is dead. I know he is. The funeral was open casket, something which I felt uncomfortable about but that his wife insisted upon.

I think about Sharon and the twins. Poor buggers. She was pregnant when he died and I know it's been hard for her, it must have been. I should really have gone back up to Yorkshire, talked to her properly. Maybe I should do it now, try to get some perspective of it all.

I look out of the window at the street light where Jamie saw the ghost. It reminds me that Sherlock said he knew something already. I'll ask him about it later. Right now I have other plans for him. I get up from the arm chair and go into Sherlock's room. I nip into the hall cupboard first and collect from the huge black bag the camera, its remote control and the tripod.

I forget he's done this stuff before and I'm reminded by the fact he's laid all the toys out on the bedside table and the bars are propped up by the fireplace. He's sitting in the armchair, still dressed, hands clasped under his chin and legs crossed, one foot dangling absently. He looks up as I come in and I see his small reaction to the camera which I set on its tripod across the room, angling the lense so it's focussed on the bed.

For a second I don't know what to do. It's the first time we've started, what I suppose Laura would call a 'scene', from cold. Every other time we've already had some kind of kissing and touching but now I have to start from scratch. I remember what I used last time to trigger the role play between us.

"Stand up Holmes." He smirks slightly and then stands up, he averts his eyes, avoids looking me in the face and I get confidence again from his acquiescence. He wants to play this game too. I feel a tremor of excitement in my belly. I walk around him, it's like drill. I look him over carefully, relishing this body which is mine to play with. His lithe muscles in the slim leg, dark blue trousers, the fine long hands hanging at his sides. The way his dark grey shirt is open at the neck, his pale skin contrasting with the sheen of the material. The long neck, I stroke my fingers down into his shirt and he shivers. I smile. I walk around him and look into his face. He doesn't look at me and I lift his face with my fingers on his chin.

His skin is pale and smooth, his dark eyebrows picked out against it like someone painted him with a fine brush. His eyes are a slightly darker grey blue than usual and it's something I've noticed when he's focussed, concentrating that laser intellect on some problem. The pupils are wide and black and only the thinnest line of colour remains. His nostrils flare slightly as he breathes and his sculpted mouth is curved in a slight smile. I run my gaze down his body. His nipples show hard through his shirt and I want to touch but I don't, yet. His shirt is loosely tucked into his trousers, one side has come free, probably from the running, and it hangs over the waist of the smooth blue fabric. It rests against and serves to highlight his erection. The trousers are thin and I can see the weight of him pushed forward through the material. I smile up at him.

"Excited Holmes?" he nods once, lips folded into a thin line which tells me just how excited he really is. Good. I need him to be into this. I click the remote control and the camera flashes a green light and begins to run. I trail my hand down his body, skimming past his erection and he shudders, moans.

"You need to be quiet. If you're not quiet then I'll have to use the gag because I don't want Jamie to interrupt me sucking your cock." He takes a deep breath and bites his lip. "Let alone me fucking you in those bars Holmes." The breath comes out erratic and shaky. Just how I want it. I check his agreement as Laura taught me.

"What do I want from you Holmes?" he takes a deep breath, I see his chest rise and his nipples push further through his shirt.

"You want me to be quiet. Or you'll make me wear the gag." I nod. I run my hands over his shoulders and down his chest. I trace my nails over his nipples and he gasps, his body twitches. I stop over his left nipple; through the shirt I pinch him hard.

"Ah!" It's a whisper and I wonder how mean I'm going to be. He bites his lip and I twist the other nipple. He is panting, pushing out shallow breaths. He's so aroused and I can see it on his flushed face, the tension in his whole posture. He sways forward on the balls of his feet, riding the sensation. I twist both together and his eyes close with the effort of making no noise. His eyebrows are knitted together in an expression of intense concentration.

"What are you thinking Holmes? Whisper it to me." He opens his eyes, they are dark and I am amazed by the vulnerability in their gaze.

"I'm not thinking." He half whispers, half growls. It throws me for a minute. Not thinking? I didn't think he could stop that brain from working. He grits his teeth, panting. "I'm not thinking. I can't think. I feel..." He stops and closes his eyes again, fighting for control. It's not just the physical things I've done to him; it's the situation which has him on this knife edge. I pinch both nipples together and he twists his face in an expression which could be pain if I didn't know that it is the opposite, pain's twin, pleasure.

"You feel..?" I prompt sweeping my hands lower and only stopping at the waist band of his trousers, he tips forward on his toes, drawn to my fingers. He fights the moan which is building in his body. His yearning is almost tangible. After a moment, where he tries to get back some control on his breathing, he answers me.

"On fire. I feel on fire John." he whispers, looking at me. God. "Don't make me wait." I raise an eyebrow. He looks down. I move my hands back to his nipples and skim lightly. He shudders out another breath.

"Holmes, I don't think that it's your place to tell me what to do, is it?" he shakes his head but I can see the mutiny in his eyes. This was going to happen sooner or later; Laura warned me that, once the roles were established they usually get challenged. "Do you want my mouth on you?" he frowns, thinking it can't be this easy. He's right, it isn't. He nods.

I circle him and fasten his wrists with two of the cuffs and clip them together, behind his back. I unfasten his shirt slowly. I rub his nipples roughly with the palms of my hands, eliciting a long hiss from his mouth and a jerk of those angular hips. I gently trace a trail from his navel down to his waistband. There is a damp circle growing where the material stretches taut over the tip of his cock. Careful not to touch him I unfasten his trousers and take hold of the elastic of his shorts. He is breathing heavily and I watch those stomach muscles tense and flex in anticipation. I leave my hands there for a second looking at the effect my teasing has on his body. Everything about him is taut and quivering.

"Then you'd better show me exactly how you want me to suck your cock, Holmes." I take my hands from his shorts and push him down with his shoulders. His head goes down and he's struggling to contain himself. I unfasten my buttons and pull his mouth against me with my hands in his hair. He does nothing. Ok, if he's going to be like that.

"Holmes, if you want me to touch you again tonight you'd better get your mouth on me." I pull my shorts just over my erection and fold my arms. It's up to him now. I look down at him, watching the emotions swim over his face. He could just do what I say but that's not what I want. A game, a thing he doesn't really feel. I want his submission.

"Come on Holmes; show me how clever you really are." He bites his lip and inches forward. His tongue pokes forward, pointed and searching, and he licks the tip of me carefully. It is so hot and wet and I fight the urge to just grab his hair and fuck his mouth. He flattens his tongue against me and runs it down the length of me, down into the base and along my balls. Clever boy, I grin.

He sucks back up the length of me and I look down. Jesus. It gets me every time. Sherlock Holmes on his knees using his mouth on my hard on. Fuck. He looks up at me as he reaches the tip and sucks the head like a lollipop. I moan and I see a small half smile play over those lips as he repeats the action. Cocky bastard.

I hold his face in my hands and push him down onto me, feeling it as I touch the back of his throat and he relaxes his muscles and takes me in. God. He stays still, forcing me to make a move. I don't.

I am panting and I know I could come like this. Can feel the fizzing heat building in my groin, my stomach. After a moment, where no one moves and the heat of his mouth becomes unbearable, he slides his lips back over me, back until I slip out of his mouth with a wet pop. He looks up at me with some of that Sherlock arrogance, insolence, I see when he's with Mycroft.

"Holmes, I can just go and wank this off if you like?" I shrug. "But you can't until I take those cuffs off. I'll let you have a think about that." I leave him kneeling there. I walk to the bed and sit down. Yes my hard on is uncomfortable but it's no game if I let him win. I watch the second hand click on the mantelpiece clock. It gets half way round the face and then he speaks.

"Let me suck you." I grin. Round one to John Watson. I move back in front of him and this time he's enthusiastic. He still doesn't take his eyes off me and I watch him close them briefly as he swallows me again. I stand still and let him do the work. He moans as he pushes against me. My breathing's getting ragged and the hot velvet of his mouth is spinning me out of control and I put my hand on his head and pull out of him. He is panting, lips red, wet and open. I pull up my shorts and trousers, the friction makes me dizzy for a moment and I stop to still my pulse.

"Not bad Holmes. Still not sure you want it though." He groans. "Stand up." He struggles to his feet, wincing as his hard on rubs against his shorts. He's not going to last long in this state and I want him to last until I'm in him, the bars and the gag are on. Let's get this first orgasm out of the way.

I unclip his hands and I lie on the bed, arms behind my head looking at him. His hands are at his sides and I can see the effort it is taking for him to behave and play by the rules. The rush of power, that this amazing man is doing what I tell him, because he wants me so much, is phenomenal.

"Give me a show Holmes," I wrinkle my nose and grin cockily. "Go on, touch yourself for me." He bites his lip; he looks like he's going to tell me to fuck off. He closes his eyes and I think, hang on, that's cheating, you made me look at you last time. "Watch what you're doing." His eyes snap open and he looks down, hair hanging round his face but I don't need to see his face to gauge his reaction.

Jesus, this is a massive turn on. His shirt is open, hanging from one shoulder. His long hands are flat over his lower stomach muscles like they're afraid to go any further. He hesitates just above his hard cock.

"You know, I think you'd look better with those trousers and shorts off." I drawl, getting into it now. He sighs and pulls them down, kicks them away. His fingers lightly touch the tip of him. He is starting to shake a little and I hear him hiss over his teeth as he makes contact. He holds himself in his hand, at first the gentlest of friction as he pulls along the smooth skin. I watch those hands, those long fingers curved over his flesh. "Do the thumb thing." He knows what I mean and he obeys. I can see the slick liquid making his hand slippery as he moves down again. He moans softly.

He's forgotten me in the movement of his hand, in the friction he's giving himself, in his impending orgasm.

"Look at me when you come Holmes. I want to see it in your face." He lifts his head; his eyes are open but unseeing as he starts to shudder and thrust into his hand. I've never seen anything so beautiful in my life. As he comes he groans.

"Oh god, John, John, god." I give him a minute to steady his thoughts and then get off the bed. I push him onto the mattress, face down and open his legs wide. His respite is momentary and I know he'll be hard again soon, once he gets his breath. I don't give him chance to get tired. I clip the ankle cuffs on and then fasten the wrist cuffs to the bed head. I leave him for a minute or two like that, just watching him. It's enough. I feel him wriggle and snake my hand underneath him, yep, half hard again already. Greedy Sherlock. I press my mouth to his ear.

"Oh dear. I'm afraid you didn't pass the test. I'm afraid I won't be sucking anything tonight. It's the gag for you Holmes. Then I'm going to fuck you so hard that you would scream, if you could." The moan, the bucking against the bed is all the information I need about the state of the part of his body I can't see. I clip the bar onto his ankles and widen it until he is forced onto his knees. His hard cock stands out from his body and I pull his hips up, taking him away from the friction of the blankets. He groans.

I lean over and get the gag. I slip it over his face and I check it's not too tight around his mouth. Then I fasten it. For a second I realise that he really is at my mercy, that this is further than we've ever gone, further than I have ever imagined. And it feels good. It doesn't feel perverse or wrong or twisted because we're having fun. We really are. Let me check.

I get off the bed and get my house keys from my trouser pocket. I put them into his hand and bend down to whisper in his ear as I trail one hand down his back, cupping one tight buttock. He moans and flutters his eyes.

"Are we having fun Sherlock?" I use his name and he opens an eye and nods. I smile and press the keys into his hand. "Drop them if it's too much, they're for saying 'cactus'." He grips the keys tightly and I know he's telling me to carry on.

I stand back and make sure I'm in his line of sight.

"Look at me Holmes. I want you to see just what you're getting." He opens his eyes and thrusts against the bed. His lips are crimson and his teeth bite down on the gag. I take off my jumper and put it on the chair. I pull my t shirt over my head conscious that my body's still in good shape. Just to be a tease I rub a nipple. I breathe out heavily as the tingle of pleasure runs through me and I look at him, so helpless and desperate for me to fuck him. God, this will never get old.

I pull down my trousers slowly. I'm so hard that I can feel my heartbeat there and my shorts don't hide my arousal. His eyes go a little wide and he makes a mewling sound. I grin at him and he looks like he's smiling behind the gag, we _are_ having fun.

"Do I take it you'd like this?" I peel off my shorts. He nods eagerly and I grin wider. I stroke myself a few times, more for his benefit than mine but it soon becomes too much. I need to be inside him.

I cross the room and get on the bed behind him. I kneel up against him and rub my hard on along the length of his buttocks, smoothing myself along the crease of him. Tiny hairs drive me to distraction as I move up and down. He is panting and so am I, forcing out short breaths, trying to control this building urge to just be in him, hard and fast. I reach for the lube and pour it over him and then rub myself against him again, slicking my hard on and making him shake against me.

I put my hand on his back, the other opens him up and I give him an inch. He moans and I freeze. That sounded loud. When there is no noise from upstairs I slip forward, another inch. God he is so tight, so hot. Every time I try to remember this feeling, savour the moment but every time we do this it is overwhelming, incredible. I grab his hips and slide the rest of my hard cock inside him.

His head comes back and he is pushing back against me. I grab his hair and pull, he moans and I reach underneath him, grabbing his cock and pumping him hard. I can't go any slower. I need to feel him come, need to feel him tighten those muscles and milk me dry. He doesn't disappoint.

He growls deep in his chest and his bucking becomes wild, irregular. It forces me deeper in and I briefly worry that I'll hurt him but he doesn't seem to care. I let go of self restraint, of the persona I have been playing and I give him my all. I surrender to the mounting, unbearable, animal pleasure that his body is affording me. He starts to come, shuddering and thrusting into my hand. I hold his hip and freefall into my own orgasm. How I don't just scream the house down I don't know. Maybe it's because he's silent but I grit my teeth and come so hard I actually see stars.

I pull out gently and he hisses. Then I slump over him and it's not until he drops the keys and they jangle on the floor that I have the presence of mind to move. I get up, muscles complaining and unsnap his feet first. He crumples on to the bed and I unfasten the gag and unclip his hands. I lie next to him on the bed and stroke my hands down his body.

His eyes are closed and he is smiling. I kiss his eyelids and he grins wider.

"John Watson, you are an evil fucker and I love you." he whispers. I giggle. He opens one eye and sniggers. "I'm going to fuck you so hard you'd scream if you could?" he repeats my own words back at me and I can feel myself blushing. He bites his lip. "Love it!" he laughs and kisses me. I reach out of the bed and fumble for the remote, I turn the camera off.

We lie there for a bit with the duvet over us, just cuddling. He goes over what we've just done like a post football match analysis.

"I nearly just told you to fuck off when you told me to touch myself." he arches an eyebrow.

"Yeah I know. But you didn't. You're dreadful." I kiss his shoulder and he nods in agreement.

"I am, awful, incorrigible. But you're no better." I nod too.

"I know, we deserve each other don't we?" he snorts and puts his hand over his mouth. I laugh.

"God, don't wake Jamie up now, now we've done all that!" he snorts again and I snigger.

"So, what made you want to do that tonight?" he asks, still smiling. I lick my lips.

"I'm going to tell him tomorrow," I raise my eyes indicating Jamie in my bed asleep. "So that was my last excuse to get the gag out." He opens his eyes wide and I can see he's impressed by my deviousness. He nods appreciatively and I grin.

"After we've been to see the medium." He replies wriggling down in the bed and pulling my arm over him. I frown.

"Medium?"

"Teresa Connolly. I made an appointment for tomorrow afternoon. Jamie said she'd told him information she couldn't possibly know. I want to see how she did that." He kisses me again. "Are you sleeping in here?"

"Do you want me to? I can always slip to the bathroom if we hear Jamie get up?" he nods and closes his eyes, smiling.

"I'm sticky and I really should get clean but you're too comfy. Is that disgusting?"

"What? That we're sleeping covered in lube and in sheets which will probably have stuck to us by the morning? Nah. Not at all." He sniggers again and I put my head on the pillow.

**Oh. My. God. What just happened? I can't believe they did that. Yes, I had the sex in my head for this chapter but I didn't they'd take so long at it or be so, so, inventive! Those boys! So, are we still friends? I promise this hasn't just turned to smutfest2010 and the plot will recommence. Crikey. Let me know eh?**

**Have an Open Evening at work tomorrow so next chapter will have to wait until Friday, sorry. **

**My lovely Baker St Irregulars! Angels, every one of you : PrincessNala (ninjabuddy),and Peachsilk (she feeds me minty sugar and I love her), Darmed (how are you doing?), Clubba Bear, Tasty- Kate ,2cajuman2, Tanya Zsa Zsa, Munchiees!, Aelfric's cat , Nellyington, mrs winny, Despairandcupcakechild, Mouserjb4 ,Tillif and Harpyquin and Jazzysatindoll,thegeekyprincess and Flabagash! Hope you're not too disappointed with me. eek.**

**Love you OHOB and Reggie Cx**


	6. Conversing with the Spirits

I am just emerging from the bathroom as Jamie plods down the stairs.

"Morning. Did you sleep ok?" Jamie looks dreadful, his face is grey and his eyes black rimmed.

"Nightmares again." He sighs. I shake my head in sympathy.

Sherlock is surprising me by putting the bed sheets in the washing machine. When I go into the kitchen he's reading the manual. I take it from him, put it back in the drawer and add the liquid and softener. I switch it on, he grins. I put the coffee machine on and put some bread in the toaster.

When it's all done I bring breakfast into the front room and set it down on the coffee table. Sherlock's nowhere to be seen but the shower's on so I'm presuming he's getting ready to go out. Jamie is sitting on the sofa, head in his hands. He looks up as I put down the tray.

"Are you going to be ok?" I ask, passing him some toast, he frowns.

"I'm going to have to do something John. I can't carry on like this." I nod.

"Sherlock's got some ideas. We're going to see Teresa Connolly today." He looks up and smiles a little.

"Thanks mate, you two have been great about this. Can I do anything to help sort things out for tomorrow?" Jesus. The party. I'd almost forgotten.

"Cleaner's round this afternoon if you can let her in? And if anything gets delivered then can you ask Mrs. Hudson to store it in her flat?" he nods, obviously grateful to have something to do.

Sherlock comes in, damp and smelling much better than I do. He takes the toast and the coffee and grins.

"I am _starving_ this morning! No idea why that would be." I laugh and shake my head. Right after this medium thing I'm telling Jamie, but last night was fun. "How long will it take you to get ready?" he looks at my pyjamas and raises an eyebrow.

"Give me twenty minutes." He stuffs another piece of toast into his mouth and nods. Then, mouth still full, he asks Jamie, "How did you hear of this woman, this medium?" I head for the shower.

We're in the cab to the part of Kensal Green where Miss Connolly lives. The houses are red brick with white stucco porches, crowded together. Once they might have been a rough area but, like so much of London these days, the gardens now show the well kept decking and potted plants of the comfortably middle class.

Her front door is painted a deep purple, Sherlock raises an eyebrow at me as he bangs the door knocker in the shape of an angel. It doesn't take her long to answer and she's not what I expected.

Teresa Connolly is a small, gentle looking woman. Her mousy brown hair is in a tidy bob cut just below her ears and she's wearing a long brown, cord skirt and a brown jumper. She looks more like a drama teacher than a person in touch with the dead.

"Mr. Holmes? Dr Watson? Come in...I've just put the kettle on." She leads us through a modern white painted hallway into a spring green front room. There is a sofa and a television and it looks like anyone's house. The only objects to give anything of her profession away are the two statues of some kind of angel on the mantelpiece. She leaves us and goes, I presume to the kitchen.

Sherlock walks about the room looking at the bookshelves, pictures and ornaments. He snaps his fingers at me for the phone and I pass it to him. He takes two quick pictures and sits back down next to me. His face shows nothing.

"Here we go," Miss Connolly says in a friendly voice. She gives off an air of kindness and she's easy to be comfortable with. "I've got herbal tea for now, I hope that's ok? I find caffeine is too stimulating before we try to make contact. There's coffee and cake for later... I find it helps us ground when we've spoken to the spirits." I have no idea what she's on about but I nod and smile.

"Chamomile please Miss Connolly," Sherlock says politely and she passes him a cup and gestures to the tea for me. I point to the box which looks like it might be strawberry or something fruity.

"Teresa, please Mr. Holmes, may I call you Sherlock?"

"Of course and this is John." She smiles at both of us and I take a cup of tea.

Sherlock's on his feet at the bookshelf. He picks up an old book, the cover is a faded green and the spine has silver writing on it. He flicks it open and smiles.

"Ah Robert Graves 'The White Goddess', an excellent book Teresa. What a nice copy this is. I must confess mine's a new paperback and doesn't have the same charm as yours."

"Ah well, that was given to me a long time ago, back in my twenties. The women who taught me to speak to the spirits gave it to me. It's very valuable to me, not just for its contents but for sentimental reasons." Sherlock nods and puts the book back carefully.

"Well it's beautiful." He says smiling. He puts his tea cup down.

"Shall we go into the other room?" Teresa asks us. I look at Sherlock. Are we having a session with her? I thought we were just asking some questions. He either doesn't notice my glance or he's ignoring me.

We follow her down past the kitchen to a small room. It's is painted a sky blue colour and it much more what I expected of a New Age medium. Large prints of angels wearing billowing robes set against pink sunsets adorn the walls. There is a niche with some large lumps of purple and clear crystals and a white glazed statue of the Virgin Mary. There are two comfortable armchairs and a round white wooden table with a deep blue velvet cloth thrown over it. One large white candle is set in the centre of the table, some cards and a lump of pale pink rock. Three chairs are arranged around it.

Harp music is playing softly from a small CD player on the floor in the corner and Teresa lights a candle underneath what I presume is an oil burner and drops some fragrant liquid into the water in the dish above it.

"I'll just go and get changed. Sit down at the table and get comfy." She leaves us for a few minutes. Sherlock is sitting very still but he looks entirely alert. He doesn't say anything and neither do I.

When she comes back Teresa is dressed in a simple long blue dress. It flows down to her feet and is of a tie dyed velvet. The dark blue of the material shifts into royal blue and sky blue and seems to match the room perfectly. She crosses to the window and pulls the blind. The room is dim, but not dark. Teresa lights the candle on the table with a long splint, the smell of the burning wood reminds me of my days at university in the labs. She turns the music off.

She doesn't hold our hands or do a spooky voice as I'd expect, she speaks quietly but without whispering.

"If we can all just take five deep breaths in and out together. One..." she breathes in through her mouth and out through her nose and we copy her. "Two... three... four... five. Good. Now, just try to clear your mind of outside thought, be in the room completely." We finish the breaths and it's quiet, somewhere in the distance a car runs along a street, a plane flies over head.

"Archangel Michael we ask your protection as we pass through the veil of life." She murmurs, it's clearly not meant for our ears. I glance at Sherlock; he is looking at Teresa intently.

"I call upon you, spirits of the happy dead of Sherlock and John to come and speak to us if you have a message for them." Nothing happens. There's no rattling from the table, no draughts, no voices from the other side. Teresa is breathing heavily; I watch the pulse point in her neck and find myself counting its beats. Her heartbeat has slowed right down.

I'm idly wondering about trance states when she starts to speak.

"I'm not really picking up anything, sorry. It's very quiet on the other side." She frowns. "Is there someone you wanted to talk to specifically?" Her eyes are still shut. Sherlock nudges me. I look at him and he is mouthing something to me. It takes a while in the dim light for me to pick up what he's saying.

"Freddy Terry, I'd like to speak to Freddy Terry if I can. He's an old army friend of mine." I realise I've probably given her too much information. Sherlock is going to be annoyed that I have sullied his experiment but he doesn't look bothered. He's still utterly focussed on Teresa. I look at her. Apart from a slight flicker of her eyelids I can see nothing discernibly different about her.

"Freddy? John wants to speak to you." She takes a deep breath through her nose and nods. "There you are. Lovely." She smiles. "Ooh he's so blonde." She is still smiling. I am stunned. How the bloody hell can this woman, living out in Kensal Green have any idea of Freddy Terry's hair colour?

"He's worried about Sharon, about the twins, John. He says you should go and see them." I know my mouth is hanging open. I've never believed in anything like this before but now, sitting before me is irrefutable proof of life beyond the grave. The scientific part of me is sitting in a corner, rocking.

"He wasn't happy when he passed over John, he says you know why." I frown. Well, I know that he wasn't happy, happy people don't hang themselves do they? But I don't know why. Sherlock looks at me, I shake my head. He moves his hand, prompting me to ask.

"Erm... Freddy... I don't know why you were unhappy mate. Erm... should I know?" Teresa shudders in another breath.

"I can't see him now, he's faded away. But he did say something before he left," she leaves a dramatic pause. "He said you'd see him again soon." I look at Sherlock and he smiles at me, it's not a pleasant expression.

Teresa shakes herself a little and then begins the heavy breathing again, this time she sounds like she's really struggling to inhale.

"John? John? There's someone here to speak to you. It's an older lady; I think it's your mum John." I shake my head and make to stand up. This is too bloody much. I can't sit here and listen to this. Sherlock grabs my arm and forces me to sit.

"Yes, yes I'll tell him," Teresa sounds like she smokes forty a day now and, somewhere in my mind, I recognise that sound clearly. "She wants me to tell you that she's happy for you. Stop worrying about what people will think, what she would think, because she's happy that you're happy. You've found love John and that's what she always wanted for you." Her breathing is still laboured. She seems to slump a little in the chair.

"Is there anyone to speak to me?" Sherlock asks as he grabs my hand under the table. He can see I'm shaken. He's changing her focus onto himself. "Daddy perhaps?" I come out of my own treacle-thick shock to look at him. His face hasn't changed a bit but his voice is soft and emotional.

I've heard him talk about Daddy before, only once. When Mycroft found Simon Eccles' dead body Sherlock said that he hadn't seen him that way since Daddy... the sentence was never finished. I have to admit I presumed his father was dead but I never expected him to bring up the subject in front of a medium. I'm still looking at him in wonder when Teresa speaks.

"Sherlock? Yes, your Daddy is here. He says that you need to look after Mummy, make sure you see her more often, keep the family together." She shudders in another breath, I think she might pass out but her breathing isn't that awful wheezing she was doing earlier. "He says that he doesn't understand what you're up to now but you seem to be happy. He... he... no, he's gone." She opens her eyes and stretches.

"Archangel Michael thank you for your protection as we lift the veil of death." She says quite matter of factly like she's just buying stamps at the Post Office and she blows the candle out and opens the blind. The abruptness of it all is a bit surprising.

We blink in the bright January sunshine.

"Cake? Coffee?" She asks still standing and it's clear the session is over.

We drink the coffee and eat the cake but I don't taste a thing. I can't get over what she knew about Freddy, the way she casually dropped in facts that only he would know. How did she do that? Now I'm out of that incense scented, candle lit room my scientist brain is reasserting itself.

Sherlock pays her and she shakes his hand, then mine. She says that she only does three sessions in a row for clients because... "It stops them keeping their loved ones from truly passing over." I think she interprets my quiet mood as grief.

As we get to the cab rank and Sherlock hails one of the big, black cars over to us I am still thinking. He settles himself opposite me, fingers steepled in that familiar way and frowns.

"What did you make of that?" I shake my head. I try to organise my thoughts.

"Well, she knew a lot about Freddy..." I begin and he nods.

"Yes, yes she did. But I already have an idea about that. What about the other information?" He almost dismisses what she said about Freddy and I find it hard to understand what I think is such an important part of the case he deems irrelevant.

"About Mum?" I take a breath, "well, I suppose she figured we were together... and presumed I was worried about what my parents might think. Hang on, I didn't say my mum was dead!" Sherlock grins.

"Yes you did." I frown. No I didn't. Sherlock leans forward in his chair, his eyes are bright. "When she said it was your mum you made to leave. She must have known then that she had it right! If your mum was still alive you'd have just said so and she'd have found another dead female relative." He sits back, folds his arms and I nod. His words do make me feel better but there's something niggling in the back of my head. I try to ignore it.

"So, what about what she said about your...Daddy?" That word still sounds stupid coming from the mouth of a thirty odd year old. Sherlock grins.

"Well, she was obviously on the same track as with your mother. Man in relationship with another man, my accent does reveal something of my upbringing..." I nod, yes Sherlock you sound like you went to Harrow. "So I suppose she assumed that my relationship with Daddy would be strained by my sexual preferences." He nods and looks out of the window.

"She knew you call your mum 'Mummy' though." I add. He shakes his head, still watching London stream past us.

"Well, that's so obvious I can't believe you didn't notice. Someone who calls one parent Daddy is bound to call the other one..."

"Mummy," I finish and he nods like I've just caught up. I have.

"If I'd said Pater, don't snigger John, some of Mycroft's friends _do_ call their fathers Pater, then she would have assumed I called my mother..."

"Mater." I say and he grins.

"Precisely."

"So, was she right then? Would Daddy have not understood about...us?" I wave my hand between us. Sherlock snorts and laughs contemptuously. He turns from the window and I am in the blue laser glare.

"John, Daddy is still very much alive and living in Monte Carlo with Toby, a young man of twenty five who used to do the gardens." He grins broadly. I swallow. Ah.

"Runs in the family?" I ask, half smiling, unsure of what my reaction is supposed to be. Sherlock laughs.

"Yes I'd say it does, much to Mummy's chagrin."

He clicks his fingers for the phone. He dials a number and is talking before I can really think.

"Jamie, yes, very interesting. Hmmm. Can you tell me where your friend Michael is being looked after? Right. And that's in... oh right. Good, yes. No, we'll be back later. Yes I will." he looks at me,

"We're going to see Michael?" I ask as he taps on the glass and gives the cabbie another address. He nods.

"Yes I think we need to see another of the ghost's victims." I nod but I don't like the idea at all. Someone who cracks under the pressure that war has put them under makes all the rest of us, who are aware that those cracks are present in our own windscreen of life, feel nervous.

"Oh and Jamie says that woman's just arrived." He raises his eyebrows and I mentally cringe. Bloody hell Jamie, this is supposed to be a secret and you've just told Sherlock, Sherlock, who can tell your father's brand of cigarettes from looking at his tax returns, that a mysterious woman has come around to the flat. Marvellous. Just great. I sigh and Sherlock smiles slightly then looks out of the window again. This whole thing makes me uncomfortable. Going to see Michael makes me want to run and hide.

I have another reason to feel strange but I don't reveal this to Sherlock. I can't get the noise of Teresa Connolly's heavy breathing out of my head. The sound she was making when she spoke about my mother. The reason that this noise is haunting me, that I am trying not to remember it even though it is loud in my ears, is because it is the exact noise my mother made before she died. I only got to see her for a few hours but I've never forgotten that sound and it punctuates my nightmares.

**Oooh spooky! This was actually the beginning of one chapter but it went on so long I've split it and you'll have to wait until tomorrow for the next one. sorry. So, what did you think of the medium? Send me a review and let me know... please.**

**I love The Baker St Irregulars!: PrincessNala,and Peachsilk, Darmed (still thinking about you), Clubba Bear, Tasty- Kate ,2cajuman2, Tanya Zsa Zsa, Munchiees!, Aelfric's cat , Nellyington, mrs winny, Despairandcupcakechild, Mouserjb4 ,Tillif and Harpyquin and Jazzysatindoll,thegeekyprincess and Flabagash! Hope you're all still enjoying it.**

**Love you OHOB and Reggie Cx**


	7. Allegations

The home where they're looking after Michael is a big town house in Clapham. Very posh but then Michael's family were always more like Sherlock's than mine, or how I imagine Sherlock's to be having only met Mycroft.

We are ushered in to the house by a young woman wearing jeans and a blouse. From the look of the rest of the staff this says more about the ethos of the establishment than anything else. They're all young, all smart but causal, no white uniforms, no obvious medical equipment knocking about the place.

"Michael's having a good day today so he'll love visitors. How did you say you knew him?" She's asking Sherlock, everyone always assumes he's the one who knows people. I answer her.

"We were in Afghan together. I've known him a long time but I'm ashamed to say that this is my first visit." She nods and smiles.

"Well, I don't know how much you know about Michael's health but he's been diagnosed with extreme bipolar disorder. He's getting back to a normal state now but he had quite a bad low followed by a manic phase before he came here. He was hallucinating, feeling paranoia, not really coping. We're hoping he's getting back on an even keel now and he might be able to go home for a while in the next few months if this continues and his upswing doesn't progress." She's obviously seen my name on the signing in form and knows I'm a doctor. I doubt she'd be telling anyone else these details.

"He was diagnosed with mild bipolar when we were out there; the doctors thought the stress of the conditions had exacerbated his problems. I thought he would have been more likely to suffer out there than back at home." She nods and pushes open a door, we walk down a red carpeted, lavishly furnished corridor, this place is more like a hotel than a hospital.

"Yes, we were surprised too but when he started seeing his old army friends," she turns and smiles apologetically, "dead ones, then it obviously triggered more extreme mood swings than he was used to. Anyway, like I said, he's having a good day today; try not to upset him eh?" I look at Sherlock and frown.

She leads us into a room with long windows which look out onto a garden. There are no flowers or leaves apart from on the rhododendrons this January afternoon but there are some birds pecking at some seeds which have been left out for them on a low stone bird tray.

"I'll tell him you're here." She says and leaves us. I turn to Sherlock.

"Listen, let me talk to him. I don't want you upsetting him." He looks offended but then he nods.

"Right well, I want to know what this 'bad business' was that Jamie talked about. He doesn't have to tell us but just know that it's what we're here for. Maybe act as though Jamie's mentioned it or something. I just want his reactions." I don't know how I'm going to do this and I rub my eyebrows and frown. The door opens and Michael comes in.

He's lost some weight and he's more athletic than the muscled guy I used to know. He's still fit though and I'm surprised when he shakes my hand and his grip is firm. His grey hair is still short and he still smiles with the side of his mouth.

"John, bloody hell you left it a while!" he hugs me and then holds me back to smile at me. "And this is..?"

"Sherlock, my partner." I say it firmly, unblinking. I'm not making the same mistake twice. He looks Sherlock up and down and shakes his hand.

"John Watson, have you gone queer?" He laughs and he's not being unkind, just teasing me like we've always done. I nod.

"Yep. 'Fraid so Mike." He laughs louder and shakes Sherlock's hand again.

"Well, congratulations, you must be something else! Never thought I'd see the day... 'knee trembler Watson'... hell, the women must be gutted." He sits down still shaking his head and laughing. Sherlock frowns.

"Knee trembler..?" he looks at me in frank astonishment.

"Oh, John was always taking the girls out of the pub for some 'fresh air' weren't you John?" Michael slaps my knee and laughs again. I sigh and shake my head.

"Twice, Mike, that happened twice." I am laughing despite myself, more at Sherlock's face really.

"Yeah, yeah, I believe you, thousands wouldn't. Anyway what's brought this visit on? I didn't even know you were in London. Sorry you find me in here but," he pulls a face, "I had a bit of a bad turn last month. Feeling much better now."

"Jamie's staying with us." It's all I get out because Michael's laughing again, for someone who's been suffering serious depression he seems quite happy. It's weird.

"Jamie? With you two? Does he know?" I shake my head and Michael nods. "No, I didn't think he would. God, that must be fun."

"Is Jamie homophobic?" Sherlock asks and I know he's thinking about the case. He doesn't care what people think about him but maybe this has something to do with Freddy's haunting.

"I wouldn't go that far but... well, he's not the most comfortable guy with that sort of thing really. Anyway, what's he doing at yours?" I pick some fluff off my jeans.

"He's having a hard time after some of the things out in Afghan. It's why we came to talk to you." I sigh and rub my hand over my head. "Look Mike, I don't want to upset you but I think some of that old stuff is bothering him now." He nods, serious and it's like the Michael we were speaking to a moment ago has gone. He speaks and it's obvious he thinks Jamie's told me the whole story.

"They're not dragging that up again are they? There isn't any proof. And it's all semantics anyway. What's torture and what's interrogation? Right John? Because we all know how you got treated and that was interrogation according to the big wigs." He sighs. He's not come out and said anything and he keeps looking at Sherlock and I know he's thinking that he doesn't know him, doesn't trust him.

Sherlock gets up from his chair.

"Look, I'll leave you two to talk. I have to make a phone call anyway..." I pass him the phone and Michael grins, obviously amused by our domesticity. When Sherlock's gone he turns back to me.

"I like him. Handsome bloke and you can tell he's from a good family. Nice one John." he grins again and I smile back at him, glad to see his mood shifted.

"Yeah I like him too." I watch as Sherlock walks across the garden, idly kicking leaves and talking in an animated fashion to someone on the phone. Michael coughs and I realise I am staring. I laugh.

"So where'd you meet him? What's he do?" Mike's really interested and it's nice to share with someone. We talk about Sherlock for a bit. I explain that he's helping Jamie with a problem.

"To do with the allegations?" he asks and, even though I don't know what he means, I nod hoping to elicit more information. "Well, good luck to him. After Freddy died," he twists his mouth and then pulls himself together, "well, no one really knows what happened. Except Jamie of course and he's saying nothing. I wasn't there that night, Justin and I were off duty so it was just Freddy and..." he's looking out of the window and I think he's watching Sherlock. As I look at him his face turns white, the blood just drains from his cheeks. I look out of the window and I hear a shout.

Sherlock is running at a rhododendron bush. He looks furious and a bit crazy to be honest but then I see the flash of a camouflaged leg as it disappears among the shiny leaves of the shrub. The ghost!

I am on my feet and so is Michael. He's making a strange keening noise and I grab his arm. He looks at me.

"You saw him too? And Sherlock?" I nod.

"Yes, this is the second time we've chased him, it, oh god. Whatever it is. It's not a ghost Michael, and you're not the only person who's seen him. I don't pretend to know what's going on but you're not mad. That man is real." He looks at me and I can feel the death grip on my arm, there will be bruises there tomorrow. He looks down at his hand as I wince and very deliberately removes his fingers.

"Really?" he whispers and he looks desperate, like this is a ray of hope, a chance to change things.

"Really." I tell him firmly.

The door opens and it's Sherlock. He's panting a little and his face has a slight sheen of sweat.

"Did you...?" he asks and we nod. "He got away, crossed a road and... gone. Damn!" he kicks the chair. Michael raises his eyebrows.

"Look, Sherlock, I know you're pissed off that you didn't get him but I want to say thanks." He strides over and grabs Sherlock's hand. Sherlock's eyebrows are almost in his forehead. "Thanks for chasing after it, him, thanks for trying to get to the bottom of it, showing me I'm not mad." Sherlock smiles and nods, then he turns to me.

"Right, I've been on the phone to Mycroft, better get home." I get up and put my jacket back on. Michael smiles at me.

"John, do me a favour and give me a minute with Sherlock will you?" I frown but nod. He hugs me to him and squeezes me hard. "Come and see me again right? Maybe I'll be at home next time eh?"

I stand in the foyer waiting for Sherlock. He isn't long and we go outside and walk to Clapham High St and get a cab. He hasn't said anything since we left the home.

"Is everything ok?" I ask and he nods absentmindedly. I wonder if it's something Michael's said to him. "What did Michael want?" He doesn't look at me as he answers and I can tell he's thinking of something else, probably three or four things knowing him.

"Oh, he wanted to say that he'd never seen you so happy, that I must be good for you and that if I ever hurt you he'd break my legs." He looks over at me briefly and smiles. "I think he's worried I'll get you pregnant and ruin your good name." I laugh.

"I think if I was going to get pregnant then it would have happened by now the way you go at things!" he smiles out of the window. "What did you tell him?"

"That I had every intention of making an honest man out of you." He looks at me and smiles that smile he does with one side of his mouth. I laugh.

"What did Mycroft say?" He shakes his head and taps his brow.

"It's all percolating up here at the moment John. Give me a moment to process." He's silent for the rest of the journey.

We get to 221b and the flat is spotless. Sherlock doesn't even notice. He asks Jamie what he wants from the Chinese and sends me out to get it.

As I walk back from the takeaway I think about what Michael said about Jamie in Afghan, about his homophobia. I'm going to tell him tonight, before the party. Should I wait until Sherlock goes to bed? Is that a coward's way out?

There's too much to think about: what happened with Freddy and Jamie? What allegations? Is he going to freak right out when I tell him he's staying with two gay men, if that's what we are? How is Sherlock going to make an honest man of me? I know it's juvenile but that last question is still buzzing around my head when I get home. I unlock the front door and I hear the shouting.

It isn't clear what is going on, it's mainly Jamie shouting and Sherlock's quiet voice but as I put my hand on the door suddenly Jamie's words are much clearer.

"That's disgusting! Jesus, does John know about you? Just fuck off! I can't believe you did that!" Alarmed I open the door. Jamie is standing at one side of the room and Sherlock is walking away from him, his coat looks like someone has been pulling at the collar and his face is red down one cheek. Jamie has his fist up and his face is screwed into an ugly snarl.

"What the fuck...?" I rush between them, dropping the food in my hurry to defend Sherlock, who's obviously been punched. He doesn't look hurt or even surprised. What's been going on?

"That...that..." Jamie is pointing at Sherlock who has one eyebrow raised. "He... touched me up! He tried to kiss me, ugh god! You're fucking flatmate came on to me and when I said no..." He shakes his head and his face is red and angry.

I look at Sherlock. He shakes his head. But he doesn't need to, I know him and I know he wouldn't do this. Not to me. Jamie is still shouting.

"John! John, for fuck's sake he tried to molest me. The fucking queer, oh my god. We can't stay here. Jesus." He grabs my arm and he's expecting me to let him pull me away, to go with him out of the flat. When I don't move he looks at me. "What? What? You can't really want to stay here with..." he points a shaking finger at Sherlock who is just looking back at him, his face expressionless.

This is not what I planned. Not how I thought I would tell Jamie about Sherlock and I. But he's given me no choice.

"Jamie, I don't believe you." It's like the world stops spinning, like time slows down and tectonic plates shift faster than what's going on in this room. I watch as Jamie's face goes from his faked disgust to disbelief, to anger.

"John, I'm fucking telling you mate, he tried it on! You're not fucking safe here with him." He shoots a dirty look at Sherlock who smiles quietly and looks at his feet.

"I don't believe you Jamie. I don't believe you because I don't think Sherlock would do that."

"What?" Spittle flies from his mouth as he fires the word from between his teeth. "He wouldn't... he fucking would! He did! What makes you think he wouldn't...?" I step towards Sherlock and take his hand in mine. I look at Jamie.

"Because he's with me Jamie and he isn't interested in you." Jamie's face falls. He starts to cry. It's not what I expected. I watch him as he crumples to a ball on the floor sobbing. I can't tell what he's saying but Sherlock can.

"I have to tell him Jamie, I can't not tell him." Sherlock bends down next to the man who has recently punched him in the face and called him dreadful names.

"Tell me what?" I look at them both, the anger and the hostility in the room switched suddenly to despair and understanding. Sherlock looks up at me; I've never seen his expression so pained. What's so bad that he can't tell me? That Jamie can't tell me?

"Jamie can I?" Jamie, still sobbing as though his heart is broken nods. Sherlock looks at me. "Jamie and Freddy treated some Afghan prisoners of war... well, really badly." he says and it's the most gentle voice I've heard Sherlock use. "Freddy couldn't cope and he killed himself."

Jamie is shaking on the floor; Sherlock's hand is on his back. Through his sobs he tries to speak.

"I'm sorry Sherlock, god, I'm sorry. It's just... I'm so scared and so fucking ashamed of what we did. I just panicked. It was stupid and wrong of me. You've been a good man." He puts his head up as he says these last words. His face is a picture of grief and remorse.

It's strange what you think of when someone turns out to not be the person you thought they were. All I can think is I lent Jamie my bed.

Sherlock Holmes' POV

I am awake. It's not surprising after the day I've had but it's still rather frustrating. The alarm clock says it's 3 am and John is beside me snoring quietly. He's been mumbling in his sleep again. It took us quite a while to get Jamie to calm down and go to bed. He seemed surprised we didn't make him leave but what would have been the point in that? He's my only chance to see this ghost again and I think I have it all worked out now anyway.

I have to admit I half expected his reaction when I confronted him with what I knew about the alleged torture of prisoners of war, while John was getting the Chinese. I didn't expect him to accuse me of molesting him, however. That was a mistake. John's a very loyal person, or at least he is where I'm concerned.

What did surprise me was my own reaction to John's revelation of our relationship; I felt a distinct fluttering in my lower stomach. The sensation wasn't unpleasant but it was unusual. I look at John again and the fluttering returns. How strange. I must look into this at the next opportunity, possibly even contrive a situation to replicate the sensation and study it more thoroughly.

He really is full of surprises, just not the ones he imagines. I've been practising my expression for when he reveals the 'surprise party' to me. I think I've got just the right combination of pleasure and shock. I appreciate the effort he's gone into and I've no intention of ruining it for him. I'm sure this is what partners do and I've read three 'Cosmo' relationship tips pages to verify my theories. There's some mystery about my present though. It's something to do with paint. He's been smelling of paint recently.

John's sleeping is not sound. He throws his arm out and I curl in behind him and put my arm around his waist. This usually stops his nightmares. My arms are longer than his torso and accidentally I come into contact with his penis. It is erect. Not unusual given that he is in REM sleep and, as I've already explained to him once or twice, REM does promote penile erection. I rub my hand over him because he feels nice.

He shifts slightly and I wriggle my other arm underneath his head and bend my wrist so I can touch his nipple with my fingers. He seems to move back against me and this means I can wrap my arm further over him and reach the other nipple too, the sensitive one. By complete accident I have one hand on his erection and my other hand is pinching his hard nipple. Well, maybe not a complete accident I confess, but a happy one nonetheless.

He moans and I am encouraged to stroke him a little harder. He rolls back against me, almost pinning me to the bed and I push my hips against him because it seems the thing to do and I'm hard too now anyway and this is fun. I can feel his heart beating in his chest through my own and I'm sure he will wake up soon. He'll probably tell me off but this is hardly my fault.

It occurs to me during the thrusting, stroking, flicking, (of my thumb over the head of his penis, my experiences in this field have shown that he likes it) and pinching, that John deserves to be made happy tonight. After all he believed me and not one of his oldest friends and that gives me the strange fluttering feeling again. I kiss his neck because it happens to be there and I like how he smells when he's asleep. Perhaps I am a little too enthusiastic because I think I might have caught him slightly with my teeth. He thrusts a little more erratically and wakes up.

"Sherlock, god, what?" I sit up slightly, not stopping the thrust, stroke, flick, pinch momentum, and kiss him on the mouth. He responds and puts up his hand to grab my hair at the back of my head. I'm sure it's some primitive notion which encourages me to redouble my efforts to bring him to orgasm.

"Shut up John and let me enjoy you." I tell him firmly and continue with the sequence of movements which appear to be bringing us both to climax. He kisses me again, his mouth tastes of toothpaste and sleep, and I feel that astonishing building of tension in my groin, feel his movements and his breathing begin the match my own.

"God, John, John." I hear my own voice without actually being aware of my words. There is nothing but the feel of him, the smell of him, the sound of him as he orgasms. I relish the moment where he blocks out the sun, eclipsing my own inner voice with his body. One day I'll work out how to prolong that moment.

His breathing starts to fall back to it's normal pace. He turns and kisses me.

"You're a madman, you know that? I love you," he mumbles before falling heavily over my chest and falling back asleep.

"I love you too." I smile to myself and my own post coital slumber steals through my limbs. Insomnia cured.

**I am very, very worried about my Sherlock pov here. Be nice about it because I don't think, with the bad cold, the lack of sleep and the week of hell ahead (overnight trip with 11yr olds) I can take the criticism. What am I saying? Be honest **

**So what did you think about Jamie's shocking behaviour? John's 'outing'? the aleegations made against Jamie and Freddy?**

**Thanks as always to The Baker St Irregulars!: PrincessNala (reading in three shades of drink),and Peachsilk (co conspirator and big in China), Darmed (still thinking about you), Clubba Bear, Tasty- Kate ,2cajuman2, Tanya Zsa Zsa, Munchiees!, Aelfric's cat , Nellyington, mrs winny, Despairandcupcakechild (loved you for all those random reviews!), Mouserjb4 ,Tillif and Harpyquin and Jazzysatindoll,thegeekyprincess and Flabagash! Hope you're all still enjoying it.**

**Love you OHOB and Reggie Cx**


	8. Happy Birthday dear Sherlock!

I wake up the next morning because Sherlock's already up and he's on the phone, pacing the room as he kicks clothes about the floor and fights his way into his trousers. I close my eyes again, trying to savour the morning doziness which makes me feel heavy and warm before I have to wake up and start for the day, it's going to be a busy one. Because today is Sherlock's birthday.

"Thanks, stop singing Mycroft, you really do have an awful voice. No, I haven't looked at the post yet. Thanks, I will. Yes, I'm sure it's lovely. Yes, I'll tell her later. The Ritz, no he doesn't. So, are you going to find out for me? Thank you. Very kind." He sighs, looks over at me and rolls his eyes. I grin and stretch, folding my arms behind my head and watching him stride about half naked. He's abandoned the trousers and is pulling on a shirt. He sees where I'm looking, grins and advances towards the bed.

"I've just thought of a present I _do_ want Mycroft. No, not from you, from John. He's awake now. Ha ha," he laughs, "yes, I think you'd better go too. Bye." He clicks off the phone and throws it onto the floor.

"Happy birthday Sherlock!"He kneels on the bed, his groin level with my face; he looks like he's having a happy birthday so far.

When he's finished exacting his birthday entitlements from me I finally get to go and shower. We're going for lunch at the Ritz apparently. I've never been and I have no idea why Sherlock would want to take me there. He says there's someone he wants me to meet.

Jamie's not downstairs when I go into the lounge and I decide to give Sherlock his present now. It's been hard to get sorted out and, even if he knows about the party, I doubt he knows about this.

"Close my eyes? Why? It's not like we're going somewhere I don't know, we're still in the building." He complains good naturedly as I lead him downstairs. I knock on Mrs. Hudson's door, after all this present is from her too.

"Ooh happy birthday Sherlock darling! I hope he likes his present John." I smile, I'm sure he will. It's taken us ages to organise and I've had to get a lot of my mates to help out. Clara and I have spent hours painting while he's been out. Even Lestrade did some wiring, apparently it's what his dad does, and he knows his stuff I have to give him that. Laura paid for everything; I think she's got him a present too though.

Mrs Hudson unlocks the door to 221c Baker St, the smell of fresh paint wafts towards us. Sherlock smiles, surely he has no idea about this? I click on the hard, bright lights and I still love looking at what we've done. The damp's gone; the awful room where we found those trainers is utterly transformed. A long steel bench takes up the centre of the room and there are boxes of scientific equipment ready to be put away, I guessed he'd want to do that part himself.

The sink in the corner is plumbed in and everything's white and clean. He's got a fridge for his body parts and a microwave for his experiments and a coffee machine. Even if I say it myself we've done a good job.

"You can open them now." I tell him but he already has his eyes open. Cheat. He is grinning broadly. "Like it? Happy birthday!" His mouth is open and for once he isn't speaking. I watch those blue eyes dart about the room, taking it all in.

"A lab!" he says quietly. "I always wanted a lab!" He turns to me and he looks overwhelmed. It's all a bit surprising, I've never seen him surprised before, I imagine it doesn't happen often.

"It's not just from me," I hasten to tell him, not wanting to take all the credit. "Mrs. Hudson donated the room and the paint."

"I was never going to rent it out though was I? And John's idea sounded lovely, and saved anymore accidents upstairs." She adds but she smiles as she says this.

"And Laura paid for the damp proofing, the equipment and the furniture. And Lestrade did the electrics." Sherlock looks at me, brows cocked in a quizzical manner. "I know, I didn't know he could do that either. And Clara and I painted and tidied up." He's still just looking.

Then he rushes over to the bench and starts pulling boxes of lab stuff out of the big crates. His face is a picture of delight. I get the feeling we've done a good thing. We stand and watch him for a few minutes, I feel like Mrs. Hudson and I are proud parents on Christmas morning. He's completely forgotten we're there; he's biting his lip and grinning, spinning dials and tapping screens and shaking bottles.

"Sherlock? Aren't we supposed to be going to lunch?" He looks up like he's surprised we're still there.

"Lunch? Lunch! Yes, yes we are. What's the time?" I look at my watch.

"Half eleven." He puts the bottle he was shaking down carefully in the counter and rushes over to us both. As he turns off the light in his lab I watch him look around the room again, he couldn't look any more excited if he tried. This huge feeling of happiness fills me up. I give him the key and he locks the door. Mrs Hudson has a spare, so do I; he's bound to lose that one.

Outside he kisses Mrs. Hudson. She ruffles his hair and he doesn't complain. I get the feeling we have bought ourselves a free pass to Sherlock forgiveness for a long time.

As we go back up to the flat he grabs my hand. I turn to him, his face level with mine because I'm on a higher step. He kisses me gently, cradling my face in those long hands.

"Thank you John. That's amazing. Really, thank you. I've never had a present like that. I love you." I smile.

"I love you too. And it's not entirely altruistic Sherlock, it does mean I can put food in the fridge and not worry about eyeballs in the microwave." He laughs and kisses me again.

We get to the top step and there's a large parcel on the doorstep. It's addressed to Sherlock and it's from an expensive shop on Bond St.

"Mycroft," he says as he rips open the packaging, vivid purple tissue paper and black ribbon. He shakes out a dressing gown, it's black and plush I can just imagine how good it will feel against skin. 'SH' is embroidered on the breast in silver thread. But, as he shakes it out, another item falls out of the parcel. It's an identical dressing gown, slightly smaller and I see my own initials on the soft fabric. I start to laugh.

"Mycroft's bought us 'His n' His' dressing gowns for your birthday! Oh my god, your brother is a lunatic!" Sherlock is shaking his head but his thin lips soon turn into a smile.

"I'll kill him. What's wrong with my other dressing gown?" He puts his present on over his shirt and trousers. He looks like he might be about to survive a Russian winter. It does look comfy though. I pull him close, yep, the material feels amazing, I kiss him. "Aren't you putting yours on?" he grins. I shake my head and point at my watch.

"Quarter to twelve." I say, he pulls off the gown and throws it over the chair.

We get to the Ritz and I am feeling a bit ill. It isn't that Sherlock told the cabbie to hurry up so that the disgruntled driver hurled us around corners at break neck speed; it isn't even that I didn't get to have breakfast this morning. No, the reason I feel physically sick is that Sherlock has just told me who it is we're having lunch with. It's Mummy.

Palm Court, where Afternoon Tea is served at the Ritz, is an astonishing place. The whole of the space is filled with gold, glittering crystal chandeliers sparkle their light down onto the gilt chairs and the ornate gilt walls. The cutlery and the china are polished to within an inch of their life and everything is shouting 'expense!' and ''you don't belong here John!' I take a moment to remind myself that I have eaten rations out of a tin under a bivouac in the desert and I have as much right to be here as anyone else. Then I pretend to believe that it's true.

The waiter shows us to a table in the window; it's obviously an exclusive setting, in the light but out of the view of the other diners. There is already someone sitting at the table and my stomach goes cold. Any hope I had that Sherlock has been pulling my leg or that Mycroft would be here as a sort of buffer vanishes as the lone figure turns to greet us. There is a part of me that is reeling from the idea that I would consider Mycroft's presence an asset anywhere. God, things must be serious.

The woman who is smiling at us is about sixty I'd say, she must be considering the age of her sons, but she certainly doesn't look it. Her hair is admittedly white, more silver really I notice as the sun through the window hits her head and shoulders as she half stands to accept Sherlock's kiss on the cheek. Her cheeks are lined but soft and the striking features I so admire on her youngest son are etched even more finely on her face and she is beautiful. I expected no less I must admit.

I have no idea if I should kiss her cheek or if this is a gesture reserved for family. She sees my confusion and holds out her hand to shake mine, fixing me with another startling pair of blue eyes and smiling widely. Her grip is firm and she presses her thumb against my hand when she clasps me.

She sits back down, smoothing her pale grey suite skirt down with one hand adorned with one solitary diamond ring. Her whole style is understated and expensive. I'm seeing the influence of her dress sense projected forwards through Sherlock and Mycroft, both conservative but classy dressers.

"Happy birthday darling!" she smiles at Sherlock who is grinning back at her. He seems very happy in her company and I am relieved that there's one of his family who it doesn't cause him discomfort to be with.

"Thanks Mummy, this is John." She already knows this but she doesn't say anything. Her sculpted mouth, darkened with a deep burgundy lipstick, smiles at Sherlock's eagerness to introduce me.

"John," she says, her voice deep for a woman and having the same upper class accent as Sherlock's. "How delightful to meet you. I've heard so much about you from both of the boys." It makes me smile to hear her talk about Mycroft as Sherlock as 'the boys', it's how I term them in my head. Mind you, it's usually because they're squabbling like children.

"Have you? Crikey. Don't believe a word of it. All lies." I shake my head seriously and smile. She chuckles.

"Well it's all been quite complimentary so..."

"Oh, in that case it's all true, every word of it gospel." She smiles again and Sherlock laughs.

"So, what did you get for your birthday?" She puts her hand on his, her nails are long and manicured, her fingers tapering.

"I got a lab!" Sherlock is still excited and I think, if it hadn't been his mother we were meeting for lunch, then he might have just stayed in 221c all day.

"A lab!" she raises her eyebrows. Just for the briefest second I can see them both twenty years ago, Sherlock all enthusiastic and excited and her responding to his delight with motherly pride. "Whoever got you one of those?" She looks at me, quirking her mouth. I smile.

"Well, John really, he organised it all but some other friends too." Sherlock dismisses everyone else's time and money with a wave of his hand. I shake my head.

The waiter comes and we order, well Sherlock orders for everyone, birthday privilege he tells me.

"I used to find the vilest thing on the menu for Mycroft, do you remember Mummy?"

"Yes I do Sherlock. It wasn't very noble spirited of you. However the gesture, I recall, was mutual." Sherlock grimaces and his mother puts her hands under her chin in a prayer position with which I am all too familiar.

"While we're on the subject of your brother Sherlock I have to say I am quite worried about him." She knots her brows and drinks some of the tea which has just been brought to the table.

"Oh? Why?" Sherlock really is hopeless. I sigh and they both look at me. I feel like a mouse with two very, very haughty Siamese cats.

"I'm presuming that Mycroft's not been himself since the Freiman incident." I have no wish to out him to his mother even though I'm pretty sure she already knows about Mycroft's tendencies.

"Freiman? By that do I take it we mean since Mr Eccles' death?" She's matter of fact as she drinks her tea again. I nod. She nods, Sherlock nods.

"Well, he's bound to be upset isn't he? Have you spoken to him about it Sherlock?" I ask him. He looks at me with alarm, have I really just suggested he have a conversation with his only brother? The audacity.

"No I haven't." He says sniffily. "I wouldn't have the faintest idea what to say. You speak to him John." He grins at me, pleased with his solution.

"I think that would be a very good idea." Says Sherlock's mother, I still haven't been told her name. "He does seem very fond of you." She looks at Sherlock who narrows his eyes. Is she doing this deliberately? I think she is. I shift in my seat.

"Well, I'm not sure I'm the right person for this but, well, if the opportunity arises..."

"I'm sure it will." Says Mummy cryptically, I'm beginning to see where her boys get their enigma from too.

The rest of the conversation is about me. I am in the firing line, often I don't even get to answer because Sherlock butts in, like someone translating for an exchange student. And that's how I feel, as though I am only visiting their world. It makes me wonder how our relationship is going to progress if these are the circles in which Sherlock is comfortable.

How old am I? Where did I learn medicine? What do, sorry, did my parents do? Am I related to the Watson family in Edinburgh? An endless round of questions which I soon realise stops them talking about themselves.

As dessert arrives so does a young man who crosses the floor confidently and pulls up a chair next to us. He's about twenty and is very handsome, model handsome. Dark hair flops over one eye and his finely featured face is astonishingly perfect. People look over and couple of them giggle. I'm just wondering why he's so familiar when a young woman from another table comes over and asks for his autograph. He hasn't even spoken to us yet.

"I loved you in 'Casanova'." The girl simpers and he smiles dazzlingly and flourishes his name on her napkin.

"Thank you. That's very kind." His voice is like melted chocolate. I look at Sherlock in alarm. Sherlock is watching this all with amusement written all over his face. The girl goes away and the man turns back to us with a smile. "Sorry, how rude of me," he kisses Sherlock's mother, not a chaste cheek kiss like her son but a full, on the mouth, possibly with tongues, kiss which seems to take an indecent amount of time. I squirm in my seat and Sherlock raises an eyebrow at me.

My brain, desperate for something with which to occupy itself, realises where I've seen him before. This is Christopher Clark, the actor. I've seen him in some chick flick Harry made me go and see with her once and I think even Clara has a bit of a crush on him. He's usually in those films where he plays the handsome bloke who just happens to move in next door. Then he just stands around being gorgeous and eventually shags the girl.

They finish snogging, really there's no other word for it, and seem to remember we're both here. From his jacket pocket, which he's slung casually on the back of the chair, Christopher gets out a box and passes it to Sherlock.

"Happy birthday." He says as though he is at least ten years our senior.

"Thanks dad," Sherlock says sardonically and his mother glares. Christopher laughs but I can see that Sherlock has annoyed him.

In the box is a bracelet. It's expensive looking man- jewellery and I can see that on Christopher it might look ok but on Sherlock? Sherlock takes one look at it and puts it down on the table.

"Thanks," he says blankly. "I'll treasure it forever." Christopher and Sherlock's mother sigh at each other and she shrugs.

"Glad you like it," says Christopher in a barbed fashion. There is a very uncomfortable silence until Sherlock breaks it, quite literally.

"Daddy telephoned this morning. Wanted to wish me a happy birthday and mentioned he'll be in London next month. Will you be at the house Mummy? He's rather hoping he and Toby can stay there." His mother's lips go thin and I see her nostrils flare. Her hand, curled over Christopher's, possessively tightens and I see Christopher wince.

"I'll be in Scotland all of next month, wont we darling?" she smiles sweetly at Christopher. He nods and moves his hand from the table, I watch him rub his knuckles discreetly.

"I'll tell him then. Thanks." Sherlock pushes his seat back from the table. "John and I had better be going."

"Are you busy tonight?" his mother has pushed out her chair and is kissing Sherlock.

"Yes," he says.

"No," I say. She raises one perfect eyebrow. We look at each other and frown.

"Well, have fun whatever your plans are boys." She giggles and pats my arm. "Lovely to meet you John, do look after my son, he does like to get into scrapes." It's as though she's suggesting he climbs trees and steal apples, she has no idea.

When we get in the cab I turn to him, his expression is blank.

"That was interesting." I remark. He sniffs and looks out of the window.

"You know, once, I had to go to Art's house because my mother was in bed with Christopher having her second, very loud, orgasm of the morning and I just couldn't listen to it anymore." He still isn't looking at me and I see his face in the window and his eyes are closed in pained expression. Bloody hell, the whole lot of them are mad, I think. "She only did it in the hope that I'd tell Daddy."

"That must have been... awful." I say, no idea what I'm supposed to think at this point. He looks at me and raises an eyebrow.

"I'm all for expressing your sexuality, as you know John, but... well, it wasn't on." I shake my head and try not to laugh at his mild assessment of something which would have most people I know seeking the therapist's couch.

"No, not on." I agree. "What are you going to do with the bracelet?" He looks at the box in his hand.

"So much more Art's style, don't you think?" I do and I say so. He'll love it and it'll look perfect on him.

When we get back to 221b Sherlock wants to go down to the lab straight away. This is proving convenient because I have to start getting things ready for tonight. Lestrade's offered to occupy Sherlock while we get everything set up but I need to move some things about this afternoon. Unfortunately our plans are hampered by the fact that Mycroft is on the sofa, Jamie's nowhere to be seen.

He looks up at us from the book he is reading and uncrosses his legs. He stands and shakes Sherlock's hand.

"Happy birthday! Did you like the presents?" He is looking at where the robes are thrown over the chair. Before Sherlock can say a word I interrupt.

"Love them, they look very...snuggly." Snuggly? John please. He nods and raises an eyebrow at my word choice.

"Good, I thought that awful blue dishcloth he keeps wearing..." I laugh and he chuckles with me, his face tight and his tone acidic. Sherlock sighs and sits down on the sofa. I see him pick up the book Mycroft was reading, oh god. SM 101. Wasn't that in the bedroom?

"I know it's traditional, even conventional, for one's partner to side with one's sibling in mocking but can we not do it today 'boys'?" he grimaces. "Did you just come to see us model the robes?" Can't these two play nicely together?

"I'm sure yours will fit but if John wants to slip his on...?" Mycroft looks at me and I swallow. Sherlock gets up and stands between us. Honestly, sometimes he acts as if his brother's going to eat me. I look back at Mycroft who is doing a good impression of a cobra.

"You asked me about some allegations of torture made in Afghanistan? Well, I've got some information for you." Mycroft waves a manila folder. Sherlock goes to take it and he whips it away. "I just brought this to refresh my memory, can't let you have it. Sorry." He flicks it open, sits on my armchair and summarises.

"Two soldiers as you know, responsible for one prisoner of war captured after a failed suicide bombing. The man later committed suicide with a nail he found in his cell." He looks up at us both. His expression is blank but I know now that this means a Holmes is thinking. "Claims were made by other soldiers, not on duty at the time, that your two friends," he smiles at me coldly, "made the man wear a lead like a dog, urinated on him and assaulted him sexually."

I feel cold in my belly, like someone turned off all the heating in the world. I didn't expect this. I knew that they had done some bad things, my mind begins to euphemise even now, but to hear it read aloud in Mycroft's cut crystal voice is too much for me. I feel my gorge rise and I run to the bathroom where I am violently sick. I stare at the toilet bowl as I flush, watch the water sluicing away and hope that it cleans away my thoughts too. It occurs to me that, through all I have seen in my life, this hits me hard because it was perpetrated by my friends.

When I go back into the lounge neither of them have moved. They both look at me and Sherlock's face shows concern, Mycroft's interest.

"How do they know this?" but I know the answer even before he speaks.

"They bragged about it of course. Not Freddy but the other one." he points upstairs to my room where Jamie is obviously hiding.

"Oh god."

"John, you know as well as I do that things done in wartime have a different resonance, a different weight." His face is smooth, he doesn't look bothered. I don't even answer. I leave the room and go upstairs.

I hear Sherlock and Mycroft running after me and I quicken my step, racing them and my conscience up to my room. I want to hit him before I get chance to be rational.

Jamie's on the bed, lying with his arms folded looking up at the ceiling. I grab him as he turns to see who has banged thought he door so loudly and I smack him right in the nose with my fist. Just once. It's all I wanted to do. I drop him and stand by the fireplace, chest heaving. Sherlock comes in next and comes straight to me; grabbing my shoulders and making me look at him.

"John, for god's sake!" He is shouting but it sounds like I'm underwater. Blood is rushing around my head and I can barely think. It's a suffocating unpleasant feeling. Mycroft is with Jamie and is passing him a tissue, Jamie's nose is bleeding profusely. Part of me is glad to see the red splashing onto his t shirt.

"How could you do that?" I hiss through clenched teeth. I shake my head, trying to clear the murderous rage which clouds my senses. Jamie starts to cry again. I roll my eyes and shake my head. "It's too fucking late for tears Jamie. No wonder Freddy killed himself. No wonder he's coming back to fucking haunt you, you deserve it!" He flinches at my words then he seems to gather himself.

"What the fuck would you know John? Tending to patients in the field hospital? Oh yeah, you saw some action, I'll give you that, but Freddy and I watched two of our best mates blown up by those fuckers! Two men, who we'd come over with, shared food with, saved each others fucking lives!" He springs up from the bed and I think he's coming to hit me and I tense but he stalks past me to the window.

"So when we caught the bastard and his stupid little, fucking bomb, the bomb he made to kill us, me and Freddy, well it didn't go off then we were angry. And scared." He adds almost as an afterthought. "And it got out of hand. Suddenly we had complete power over someone we fucking hated. Someone who meant to kill us and there were no consequences John! No one was going to give a flying fuck if that bastard lived or died!" He sinks to his knees. "And that was all ok until afterwards. When Freddy couldn't sleep for the guilt and I started drinking because then I forgot about it, or could talk about it. You don't know what you're capable of until something like that happens John. I wish to god I had never fucking found out." He starts to cry again. Mycroft and Sherlock are looking at me. I don't know what to say, what to do.

There's a tentative knock on the door and we look up to see Lestrade standing on the threshold with a bottle of champagne. He waves it merrily.

"Happy birthday Brainiac!" he grins.

**So, Jamie... it's been killing me all this time because I knew what he'd done but I wanted you to like him at first. How did I do? What did you think of Mummy? **

**Not sure when I'll post again this week as life is mad with aforementioned school trip and party this weekend. I'll do my best but I think I need some sleep.**

**The Baker St Irregulars! What would I do without you?: PrincessNala and Peachsilk (likes BC even in a dress!), Darmed (do hope you're ok babes) Clubba Bear, Tasty- Kate ,2cajuman2, Tanya Zsa Zsa, Munchiees!, Aelfric's cat , Nellyington, mrs winny, Despairandcupcakechild!), Mouserjb4 ,Tillif and Harpyquin and Jazzysatindoll,thegeekyprincess and Flabagash! And all the new people who just found us! Your reviews make my morning SO much more interesting!**

**Love you OHOB and Reggie Cx**


	9. Surprises

Lestrade just stands there, the grin falling from his face as he takes in the scene.

"What the fucking hell's going on?" he says, frowning. I stalk past him down the stairs. I don't trust myself to speak.

Sherlock comes after me and puts his hand on my shoulder, he doesn't say anything. I'm grateful because I have such a bloody turmoil of emotions in me that I have no idea how to react. Mycroft is down next, Jamie stands in the hall, his coat's on and he's got his kit bag.

"I think it's probably best if I take him somewhere. After all it is your birthday Sherlock." He seems all business like, exact. Sherlock nods and looks at me. I avoid Jamie's gaze and nod too. Mycroft pats his brother on the shoulder and smiles at me. "Right, I'll be off then. Hope the rest of the day goes well." He winks at me and Sherlock looks away.

They go downstairs and then Lestrade comes in, he's still holding the champagne. He looks deflated.

"Does anyone want to tell me what's going on? John? Sherlock?" Sherlock's gone into the kitchen and got champagne glasses, god knows where from, I didn't even know we had them.

"Jamie turned out to be a war criminal and so John hit him." he says taking the bottle and ripping off the tin foil from the neck. "I don't know about you but I really need this drink!" I smirk, typical Sherlock to sum the whole traumatic, confusing, tangled mess up with one sentence.

"Bloody hell. Good job I brought another bottle then, eh? The other's in the fridge, I put it in when I got here. By the way, what's in the jam jar in there?" He wrinkles his nose.

Sherlock pops the bottle; I watch his long fingers wriggle the cork out of the neck.

"Knuckles," he says nonchalantly, Lestrade feigns a gagging gesture and I grin. "I've nowhere else to put..." Sherlock stops mid pour of my glass, he's just remembered he has an entire laboratory downstairs. He puts down the bottle and grabs open the fridge, takes the jar and he dashes off. Lestrade stares after him.

"I take it you gave him his present?" He smiles as Sherlock comes back, still holding the jar, frantically looking around the room. I take the key for 221c from his coat pocket and hand it to him silently; he kisses my cheek, grins and runs off again. I nod at Lestrade.

"Whatever gave you that idea?"

"Do you mind if I go down? Seems as good a way to distract him as any." He says picking up the open bottle. I look at my watch, five thirty.

"Keep him down there until seven ish, everyone will be here by then?" Lestrade is already at the stairs.

"Won't be a problem, I'm going to ask loads of questions. He'll love it." He grins and leaves.

I take the rest of the afternoon to get things sorted out. Clara comes over to help. People are arriving for seven and I've got the flat looking good. I've garnered lamps from Mrs. Hudson and two from Clara. The lighting's cosy and intimate. Clara says it makes the room look more old fashioned, Victorian. It certainly highlights the interesting wallpaper. We've got the fire lit and pushed the furniture back. Together we've dragged the dining room table out into the lounge.

"Hey look! This table has a hidden leaf underneath, we won't need to drag that other table upstairs, we'll all fit here." Clara pulls out the extra bit of the table and smiles as she fits the chairs she's lent to me into the extra seats. I circle the table counting out names.

"Laura, Rose, Art, me, Sherlock, Lestrade, you, Mrs. Hudson, RN..."

"RN?" Clara frowns.

"Ah. Yes, not sure what his name is. RN's a nickname." She raises her eyebrows.

"I see. What does it stand for?" I sigh.

"Rubber Nazi." she grins.

"Really?" I nod.

"Yep, really. He's into bondage and all that. Actually I should tell you, that's where Sherlock met Laura and Art and Rose." Clara laughs.

"Sherlock's into... god John, are you into...? Wow. Bloody hell. Cool." She looks at me with new respect. Much as I think I should tell her that, a) I am not a hardcore Bondage Master and b) that even if I was it wouldn't make me cool, I just bask in her impressed expression. "So which one of you..? Oh sorry? It's just like, fascinating." She says as she sets out the wine glasses and tries not to look shocked.

"What? Oh right, which one of us... erm, well both of us. We take turns."

"Gosh. Wow. Sorry, not being very coherent here am I?" she's quiet for a bit and we finish setting the table. "So Laura and Rose, are they together?" I nod.

"Yeah, I think you'll like them. Laura's, well, she's exciting. And Rose is a sweetheart." Clara frowns.

"Is Lestrade the only straight person tonight?" she starts to giggle. She's only met him once but he's obviously made an impression. I consider her question.

"Apart from Mrs. Hudson, yes." Clara purses her lips like she's about to say something and then just nods. I'm just about to ask her what's wrong when there's a quiet knock on the door; it's a rhythm, like in a bad spy movie.

Clara opens the door and it's Art, he's on his own but he's struggling to carry a large bunch of flowers and a painting.

"Hello!" he whispers looking furtively about.

"It's ok, he's downstairs with Lestrade." I grin.

"The policeman? Darling, can I sneak down?" I shake my head.

"No, we're staying up here; I'll go and get him later." He pretend pouts and then passes me the flowers.

"For you," he kisses my cheek. "For being such a doll and organising this. And this is for the birthday boy!"He leans the picture against the sofa. I try to peak through the brown paper. "You're not to look now!" he squeals, throwing himself dramatically in front of the canvas. "It's for the bedroom," he winks and Clara giggles.

"You must be Art!" She shakes his hand and he pulls her in for a kiss. They start to introduce each other, explaining how they know Sherlock, how they know me. Art raises his eyebrows when Clara mentions that we dated briefly.

"The one that got away!" he sighs dramatically and Clara smiles at me. Then Clara says she likes Art's suit, it's black with a thin pinstripe, a kind of modern take on a gangster outfit from 20s. Then the door opens and it's Laura and Rose.

"Hi!" Rose smiles and gives me a hug. Laura is behind her and she gives me a dazzling smile. They've got party dresses on. Rose's is a dark pink silk and Laura's is in black, predictably.

"Hey John! Did the booze arrive?" I gesture to the corner of the kitchen where the crates are stacked ready to replenish the fridge. "Did he like his present?"

"I've never seen him so excited..." I begin but Art interrupts.

"Now, I'm sure that's not true!" Everyone chuckles and I think I blush.

"When's your date getting here?" I ask trying to deflect the conversation.

"He had to work late," Art pouts and then shrugs. "He'll be here a little after eight I think."

"Did he indicate his proposed outfit?" Rose asks and smiles at Clara. "Have they told you about RN?" Clara nods and I can see she and Rose are going to get along.

"Does anyone know his real name?" I ask the others. They look from one another and then shake their heads. "Not even you Art?" he frowns and then shrugs.

"We don't talk much," he says grinning. There is a general groan from everyone and I wonder if we can be heard downstairs.

"Yoo hoo!" Mrs. Hudson opens the door. She's wearing a really nice purple dress which sweeps down to her feet. Clara smiles and goes and hugs her. They stand with their arms about each other. It's nice to see them both so happy. Laura glances at the clock and I realise I'd better get Sherlock.

"Right, I'll send Lestrade up and then bring Sherlock. Try to be quiet." This last comment I aim at Art who tried to look offended and then giggles.

"Shall we turn the lights off?" he asks. I nod.

As I leave I turn off the lights. I am just about to go downstairs when I hear Art remark.

"Lady Laura Aston! Keep your hands to yourself young woman! You're a peer of the realm!" There is much silly giggling; it's like being seven again.

"Shhh!" I hiss and the giggling gets sillier. I sigh.

"Geoff, phone call for you upstairs." I say as I come into 221c. Lestrade is sitting on the bench swinging his legs while Sherlock gives him a lecture on the different types of mud found in London. Lestrade looks relieved to see me. He jumps down from the bench making the glass instruments Sherlock has piled up, wobble dangerously. Sherlock glowers.

"Ok thanks John. Are you hungry?" It's our cue.

"I've made pasta, stay for dinner if you like? Sherlock, are you hungry?" He looks up from the pipette he is squirting into a flask and he is thinking. I see the thought processes flick over his face. 'It's exciting down here but John wants me to have dinner with him and Lestrade, it's my birthday and I want to play down here but I suppose I should be nice.' He nods.

"Hang on a minute; I'll come up with you." He says, dropping the last of the liquid in the flask and swirling the mixture. Lestrade goes upstairs.

I watch him work. He is absorbed in the experiment he is undertaking. He heats the flask over the Bunsen, shaking the glass bottle carefully. He looks up and sees me watching; he grins and puts the flask down.

"Thank you." He comes around the bench and puts his hands either side of my hips, leaning his hands on the metal surface. He kisses me. His lips brush mine and it feels like it's been forever since he touched me. He obviously has the same reaction because he's breathing heavily and he leans into me and grinds his hips against me. I moan a little and he brings one hand up to cradle my head. His tongue plays just inside my mouth, his teeth graze against my lower lip and I gasp a breath in. He pushes against me more insistently.

I suddenly realise that we have a party to go to. I push him away and he frowns.

"Let's do this later." I kiss him again and stroke his cheek; he closes his eyes and nods. I take his hand and lead him out of the lab, he locks the door and, still holding my hand, he lets me take him upstairs.

I open the door to the lounge and gently push him forwards into the dark. The light flicks on and I briefly see his face, grinning broadly before he even sees anyone.

"Happy Birthday!" Everyone shouts, originally enough. Sherlock is smiling and raises his eyebrows at me. I grin. I know him well enough to know he wasn't surprised for a moment.

Everyone comes forward to kiss him, hug him and he stands there like a piece of wood and lets them manhandle him. Lestrade shakes his hand; Rose and Laura kiss him on the cheek. Art hugs him and grabs his arse, apologising to me. Clara kisses him and Mrs. Hudson ruffles his hair although she has to stand on tiptoe to reach him. He holds out his arm towards me and wriggles his fingers. I come forward and he grabs my hand and holds it.

Art brings us some drinks. Murphy's' for me and Sherlock's favourite beer courtesy of Laura.

"So, have you had a nice day?" he asks. Sherlock smiles mildly.

"John met Mummy and then we came home and found out Jamie was a..." the others have stopped talking and are listening now.

"War criminal was how you described it to me."Lestrade says drily, there is a shocked silence.

"And John punched him. On the nose." Sherlock adds for effect. Everyone now looks at me. I shrug.

"Is that why he isn't here?" asks Laura.

"No, he's nipped out to get us a clown who does balloon sculptures," says Sherlock his eyebrows raised. It's a moment before people realise he's joking. He doesn't do it often. Then everyone laughs.

"Shall we sit down? The food's going to be here any minute." Laura says checking her watch. She sits at the table and we follow her, Lestrade ends up between her and Art. I cringe.

"Have we met?" Lestrade asks politely, frowning as he tries to place her face. I remember her story about the party and how Lestrade came to fetch Sherlock. She pretends to think.

"Possibly, you might know Daddy? Lord Ashton?" He scratches his ear and shakes his head.

"It's strange but I have the feeling we've met while I've been on duty..." He cups his chin on his hand. I can tell by Art's expression that he's worked it out; he catches my eye and grins.

"Oh I know!" He leans over and touches Lestrade's arm. "Laura! This is the policeman who came to get Sherlock that time he was with Andrew! In the dungeon!" he adds, eyes twinkling with mischief. Laura frowns and then her eyebrows raise and she nods. Lestrade looks thoughtful and then blushes. He's remembered.

"Ah, and Sherlock was... yes, with that bloke... Andrew? Right. I remember now. Yeah." Bless him, he looks completely thrown. Sherlock overhears and leans on an elbow to join the conversation.

"Has anyone heard from Andrew?" he asks. Lestrade looks relieved.

"Since the party? When John had to defend your honour?" asks Art sweetly. Sherlock nods and grins.

"Did you... I mean, was he your boyfriend?" Lestrade asks Sherlock obviously still trying to make sense of it all. Sherlock shakes his head while Laura and Art nod in tandem.

"No, not a boyfriend. I don't think I've ever had a..." he looks at me and frowns. "Andrew was the subject in an experiment." Lestrade snorts.

"An experiment which left him strapped over a stool entirely naked? Sounds interesting. I don't recall my science lessons being that much fun."

"Would that be fun Inspector?" Art leans his hand on Lestrade's arm coquettishly. It's not fair how flustered Lestrade gets.

There's brisk knock at the door and Lestrade is rescued from his embarrassment by the arrival of the Rubber Nazi. If that's possible.

Except Rubber Nazi isn't in rubber. And he isn't in SS uniform at all. Nor is he in a mask. He's wearing a really expensive looking double breasted suit and he has the shiny black hair and chiselled jaw of a superhero.

"Who's Bruce Wayne?" Clara whispers to me and I nod in agreement.

"Rubber Nazi." I whisper back and her eyes go wide. Lestrade is on his feet, his face shocked.

"Superintendent?" I look from Lestrade to RN and the penny drops. Oh my god. The Rubber Nazi is Geoff's boss. I think I gasp aloud.

"Lestrade? Good grief, I didn't know you knew Sherlock! I should have realised really, all the times he's been at the Yard. How are you?" RN shakes Lestrade's hand and then claps Sherlock on the shoulder. "Happy birthday Sherlock! Bought you a little something, Art said you'd like it. Nothing extravagant but... well, here you go." He passes Sherlock an envelope.

I am still gaping. I've never seen RN outside of his rubber costume and it's hard to imagine him as Superintendent RN. Lestrade's mouth opens, closes. RN grabs the chair which Art has saved for him and smiles sweetly at us all.

"Aren't you going to open it?" he nods to the envelope. Sherlock starts and prises the paper apart aware that everyone is focussed on him in order to avoid the awkward situation at the table.

"Vouchers!" he smiles broadly. "Just what I wanted! Look John!" He waves them at me and, although I can't see the name of the shop on them, I can see that they are a lurid pink and have some black handcuffs embossed on them. Jesus.

Laura's phone beeps and she goes to the door. Five men in dinner jackets bring in food on platters. It's probably the same bloody caterers that Mycroft uses. Everyone is eating and drinking and I'm just enjoying my starter when I feel Sherlock's hand on my knee.

At first I think he's trying to tell me something and so I look at him. He's engaged in a conversation about strangulation with Lestrade which he appears to find engrossing. I frown, from his expression he doesn't even know I'm here. The hand moves further up my leg and begins a tickling, circling motion.

It's like the noise in the room drifts away to a quiet buzz and all my attention is on that 3 inch spot over the top of my thigh. Maybe it's the distance, or the fact that all these people, these new people and old, I catch Clara's eye and smile, all these people, are gathered here but something makes me take stock of my new life.

All the things I wanted, close friends, people I could trust and laugh with, someone to love me so that I could let myself love them, it's all here. It's hard to believe that these things have fallen into place so easily. Has it been easy? I question myself. Not entirely I think, wincing at the remembrance of having my fingernails pulled by Mycroft's goons, Freiman's torture of those kids. But easy if that's what I've had to go through to win this life, this love. What was it Sherlock said that time? 'It was worth the wound.' I look at my fingertips, the nails have only just grown back over the nail beds and they still look a little raw, worth it. I smile to myself.

I slide a glance to Sherlock. His face is animated, engaged in a debate with Laura now about the place of aristocracy in British life, or at least that's what I think they're discussing. His pointed, turned up nose is wrinkled as he disagrees with her, that full mouth smirking and the high cheekbones contrasted with his pale skin in the lamplight. He still makes me catch my breath and I do that thing which I like to do sometimes when he's not paying attention, which is admittedly not bloody often. I look at him, I take him all in. Long fingers twisted together, sharp elbows on the table, the way his shoulder blades cut through the fabric of his shirt, the rise and fall of his chest, the blue eyes bright with thought. I look at the way his dark hair falls over one perfect eyebrow and I remember, consciously enjoying the fact, that he is mine, that he loves me. I bask in this self indulgent moment. I think about all those times he has moaned my name, accepted my body into his, wanted me so fiercely like he does everything. The warm glow of satisfaction, of having something precious which no one else can have, settles over me.

I shift my thoughts and remember how he makes me want him too. How demanding and gentle and passionate he is about me, about my body. And I smile. For four minutes I take stock of my life and realise how bloody happy I am. How content I am with the person I've become. And it's because I met him.

As if he hears me thinking he looks at me and smiles a slow smile. That expression, hunter, hungry, used to scare me a little but now I feel a tremor of excitement flush through me. His hand moves higher, and he squeezes gently, still grinning wickedly. I feel the tingle of emotion transmute to passion. My breath hitches but everyone's so focussed on the conversation that I go unnoticed. He turns to me.

"John, I want to go and open Art's present? Will you come?" I nod and get up from the table, pushing my start plate away.

"Don't be long boys, main course id ready in a moment." Laura says catching Sherlock's eye.

"I just want to see what it is." He smiles back and her and she grins. Then he pulls a box from his pocket. "Art, this is for you. Unwanted gift which I thought was much more your style." Art takes off the lid and tips the heavy bracelet onto his palm.

"That's gorgeous. Are you sure?" but he's already putting it on, getting RN to fasten it for him. Sherlock laughs.

"If I tell you Christopher Clark bought it, does it make it better?" Art squeals.

"Oooh! I love him. Did you see him in 'Casanova'? I'm definitely buying that on DVD!" he leers.

"So you can watch the bit where he seduces the young boy singer?" I ask and everyone gawps at me, "what? I watch films you know!" Sherlock tugs my hand and picks up the canvas.

In his room he puts the picture down and turns to me. He wraps those long arms about my neck and pulls me to him. He kisses me lazily and those slow kisses, languid and gentle begin to fan the passion which his teasing hands have started. He breaks the kiss and looks at me; his eyes are a sea blue.

"Thank you for today, for everything really John," he murmurs as he kisses my neck. "For the party, the lab, meeting Mummy, for being the best thing I could ever have for my birthday." Each phrase is punctuated with a soft kiss down my collar bone. He must be able to hear my heart hammering against my bones. He looks up from where he is bending, fingers unbuttoning my shirt.

"I'm going to thank you properly later but for now," more kisses this time over my nipple, I arch my back and hiss as he takes it into his mouth. "I just wanted to make you come. Is that alright?" I nod, words have failed me. I can feel my pulse in my hard cock and he kisses down my body until he is kneeling and I am leaning against the bed. He's still talking.

"You know today made me realise what a good man you are." he is unfastening my jeans and kissing along the length of me through the material of my shorts. "It made me think how lucky I am to have you." he pulls down my shorts and looks up at me, he licks his lips slowly and I groan.

"And of course I, personally, find you very attractive." He says with a smile and slips his mouth over the tip of me. His mouth is warm and wet and demanding. He hollows his cheeks and pulls along the length of me, eliciting a moan and I hiss from me as my hips buck forward trying to create more friction. He chuckles against my skin.

His hands come up and he grabs my backside with one, pulling me right into his mouth and snakes the other up my body to pinch my nipple. The combination of sensations is overwhelming. I start to thrust, his hand moves from my nipple and gropes for my hand. He finds it and brings it to the back of his head. I grab his hair and push against him. He moans. His fingers resume their teasing and stroking of my nipple, first one and then the other. I start to come.

"Oh, oh Sherlock. Oh god. Don't stop." I hear my voice as though it is someone else because all my consciousness is focussed on the part of me between his lips.

When I release his hair he kisses me gently, soothingly and stands up again. He presses his mouth to mine and I taste myself, mingled with his own personal taste. It is the flavour of us I realise.

I lean against his chest, trembling a little form the exertion, and he runs his fingertips over my scalp. When my heartbeat is regular and my breathing steady he pulls back and looks at me.

"What do you think the picture is?" he grins, I'm impressed he had the patience to wait and see. I smile and shrug and he turns and unwraps it.

It isn't a picture; it's a large, gold framed mirror. It's obviously an antique and the surface is pewter and mottled rather than silver and shiny. The frame is broad and ornate, swirls and curls in an Art Nouveau style. There is a tag attached. Sherlock lifts it and reads it. He laughs and passes it to me.

"Always useful to have a large mirror in the bedroom boys! Have fun with it! Art x'

**Hi again! Hopefully this made you happy. Between sleep deprivation, cold medicine and having too much bloody word to do I am not sure what happened here. Will hopefully write tomorrow and then can't do anything until Sunday. Longest I think I've gone for months. sorry guys! If it's any consolation it will be killing me. so, I'd appreciate some feedback on this to keep me going and motivated. Glad you approved of John punching Jamie last time!**

**The Baker St Irregulars! I'll miss you over the next few days.: PrincessNala and Peachsilk (I'll share him sans dress?) Darmed (do hope you're ok babes) Clubba Bear, Tasty- Kate ,2cajuman2, Tanya Zsa Zsa, Munchiees!, Aelfric's cat , Nellyington, mrs winny, Despairandcupcakechild!), Mouserjb4 ,Tillif and Harpyquin and Jazzysatindoll,thegeekyprincess and Flabagash! And all the new people who just found us! I'll be checking email tomorrow morning, off to bed now. Feel like death!**

**Love you OHOB and Reggie Cx**


	10. Slow Dance

We go back through to the lounge when Sherlock's reassured me three times that I don't look like he just made me come. He is chuckling and so I expect some comments but no one says anything. We take our places at the table and start dessert.

"Delicious." Sherlock licks his lips and looks at me as he takes the first mouthful of food but I know it's not the meal he's commenting on and I smile.

Conversation flows easily between everyone. Art and Laura tell us stories with thinly veiled public characters doing outrageous things, Lestrade and the 'Super' RN try to guess who the eminent and ridiculous people are, Clara discusses some of the rich people she's been clients for, Rose gives us her take on the English and we generally analyse London in particular and society in general. Everyone seems to get on really well, even Lestrade has relaxed into the fact that his boss is here, it probably helps that RN isn't in his Gestapo outfit.

When we've eaten dessert, Laura and Clara insist we move the table back and put some music on. Laura picks out some blues from my iPod and she and Clara begin to dance. I find myself sitting with Lestrade and Art on the sofa.

"Good party John, well done mate." Lestrade puts his hand on my knee. I nod, it's informal and fun and I'm glad we didn't do it somewhere else.

"So, how did you meet Sherlock, Geoff?" Art leans past me and asks Lestrade.

"I was on a case, maybe six years ago? Getting bloody nowhere and utterly desperate for a break. Sometimes it's like that and then a tiny thing; a little feeling will crack the puzzle but not this time. I was under pressure from above, ha, your boyfriend actually!" he laughs and Art smiles. We watch RN now shuffling with the girls to some number about going to prison for your man. The irony escapes none of us.

"Anyway, I was down the pub, on my own, when this weirdo comes over. He's bought me a pint of what I normally drink, I had something similar but my usual had been off when I'd ordered. I thought I was being stalked. And I thought he was chatting me up!" he grins ruefully, "Some hope eh?" he and Art exchange glances.

"So he sits down, long coat, mad hair, staring eyes and he says 'It's the brother.' "Lestrade raises his eyebrows. "And I was like, 'what?' And he said it again and then told me something about the brother which I couldn't prove, but he could." He shakes his head. "Then he told me who he was and gave me his phone number."Art whistles.

"Wow. That's Sherlock eh? So, when you say some hope..?" Trust Art to get back to the sex. Lestrade smiles and takes a big breath, sits back on the sofa and I follow his gaze to where Laura is trying to make Sherlock dance. They are both laughing and she has his arm. He is shaking his head, protesting that he can't. The music slows and she grabs him, hands on his hips as she sways against him. He is smiling down at her and his tall frame moves slightly but it's in response to her movement, not his own.

"Well, yeah, I mean..." Lestrade waves a hand to where Sherlock is standing. "You would, right?" He looks at Art and chuckles. Art nods vehemently. "You're not offended John, are you?" Lestrade turns to me, I am still watching Sherlock.

"No, why should I be? Just makes me feel lucky." Art sits back against the sofa too.

"Not lucky John, you must have to put up with a hell of a lot for that kind of man. Not luck, you're just the right people for each other." We both look at him; I've never heard him that serious. He raises his eyebrows. "What? I can do deep when the situation warrants it!" we laugh.

"So, did you have a crack at him too?" Asks Lestrade coarsely and I shake my head in mock disgust. He chuckles.

"Yep." Art nods, "got nowhere. Got him drunk and he passed out. Ah well." Lestrade takes Art's glass and waves it.

"Refill?" Art nods and Lestrade goes off into the kitchen.

"He's nice," Art says. "Is he with anyone?" He is looking appraisingly at where Sherlock is begging Lestrade to save him from the dancing. Lestrade is shaking his head but in the end he pulls Sherlock away from Laura's clutches. I look at Art in surprise.

"Why? Are you interested? I thought you and RN..?" Now we both look at where RN is talking to Rose and Clara. Art screws up his face.

"Oh he's good for sex, I'll give him that, but he's a bit...boring." I grin.

"Only you could call a man who dresses as a Rubber Nazi boring, Art. Do you really like Geoff?" He nods and gets up from the sofa and goes into the kitchen with determination. I shrug. Wow.

"Come on Dr Watson! Get those joints moving!" Laura grabs my hand and pulls me to my feet. She thinks I'm going to protest so I deliberately don't. I spin her under my arm and she giggles. "Ooh a mover! I should have known it! Look Sherlock, John's dancing!" I look into the kitchen, behind Sherlock Art is in conversation with Lestrade. Art's hand is on the fridge door where Lestrade is leaning, they are smiling. Crikey. In front of them, Sherlock is watching me, glass cradled in his hands. He smiles slowly and blinks. I smile back and spin Laura again.

The song is an upbeat number, a song called 'T Bone Shuffle' by Albert Collins and Laura and I are enjoying the music. She's a good dancer but I expected as much, she's light on her feet and naturally graceful. I love music and I like dancing. I don't pretend to be much good but I know I was always better than the boys at school down the youth club and I used to enjoy clubbing. Before long we are nodding and singing along and enjoying ourselves immensely. 'Let your hair down woman', the chorus exhorts and Laura pulls the chopstick out of her hair and shakes her head. Her dark hair falls about her face. We are laughing. Clara and Mrs. Hudson get up and so does Rose. We are all dancing in a circle, pausing briefly when the music stops and the new track starts.

"I love this one!" says Clara as she does a little flourish at the beginning of the Etta James track 'Tell Mama'. Laura grabs her hand and spins her, then it's Rose's turn. They are all having a great time. Laura is miming and they are both holding her hands and dancing. I need another drink.

I go into the kitchen and Sherlock hands me a pint of Murphy's. He cocks his head.

"I didn't know you could dance." He says smiling. I shrug with a fake modesty.

"But you knew I had rhythm, huh?" He grins now and I laugh. He nods.

"Yes, I had ascertained that John. Although, as I've already mentioned, a good scientist likes to check his theories." I put my arm about his waist and we stand together, watching the girls dance.

"They get on, that's nice." I tilt my glass to where Clara, Laura and Rose are still dancing and giggling.

"As do they." Sherlock points his glass slightly towards his shoulder indicating Art and Lestrade who are laughing quietly. I peer past Sherlock's bony shoulder; Art is leaning towards Lestrade who is turned towards him. Their body language says it all. We might as well not be here.

"Eek. What about RN?" I look for him but he's not here. I frown.

"Mrs. Hudson took him to see her vinyl collection of jazz." Sherlock glances sideways at me and raises an eyebrow.

"Are all our guests getting off with each other?" I sound shocked and he grins.

"No, I believe Mrs. Hudson _does_ actually own a jazz collection. But... this is an interesting development." He indicates Lestrade and Art with his finger.

"Mmm." I concur and sip my drink. "And those three?" Clara is now in the middle of a Laura and Rose sandwich. They are all still laughing and dancing to 'All the Way down' by Etta James and they are shimmying together in perfect time to the salsa style percussion. I smile; they look like they're having fun. Sherlock twists his mouth like he's thinking.

"Well, I know Laura's not beyond a threesome but Clara?" I frown. I don't know. Then I think it might do Clara some good to have some fun. She's not been with anyone as far as I know since Harry and Laura and Rose are nice girls. There's still a part of me that is shocked by my liberal attitude. I tell it to shut up and I pull Sherlock closer. He slides his eyes sideways to me.

"So, you don't dance then?" I ask him, leaning into his side and stroking his ribs through his shirt.

"No. I don't. Not generally." His voice sounds wary. I smile to myself.

"Not even for me? Just this once?" I look up at him. His lips are in a thin line, his eyebrows knotted together.

"John, have you seen the size of my feet?" He taps them on the parquet flooring just to make a point. I have to admit, they are huge. I nod.

"Well, you know what they say about men with big feet?" I snigger. He raises an eyebrow.

"That they wear big socks?" We both laugh.

"I don't see why big feet would be a problem in the dancing department." I say sliding my fingers down his side and grabbing his hand. He looks at me cautiously.

"Mummy sent both Mycroft and I to dancing, no, don't laugh John, it was terrible. Well, I was terrible. Mycroft turned out to be quite good. In the end it was the Royal Ballet or a life of political intrigue for dear old M." He twists his mouth into a smirk and I don't know if he's being serious.

"So, you've not danced since then?" He shakes his head and drinks his pint. "What about when you went clubbing?" He bends to my ear and whispers in that dark voice which thrills through me.

"I wasn't there for the dancing John, remember? I was there to practise the skills I was later to hone to perfection on you." He kisses my ear gently and I shudder, he chuckles. I pull myself together, this is classic Holmes distraction.

"So, you won't dance with me?" I mock pout. He shakes his head but then the track changes. Violins swell across the room. This is just the right song. I pull his hand and he nearly lets his fingers slip through mine. At the last moment I tug gently and it tips him forward. I put down my glass and take his from him. He is smiling and shaking his head slowly. I put my arms about him and walk backwards to the rug where the girls are dancing.

"At last, my love has come along," Etta James' velvet voice swirls from the speakers and he smiles as I make him sway with me to the music, "my lonely days are over and life is like a song." I put his arms around my neck; my arms are around him, one over his shoulder and one around his waist. He is smiling from the side of his mouth, unsure and self conscious as I move him gently over the small space of rug. No one's watching us; Clara, Laura and Rose are now sitting together on the sofa, Clara's leg thrown over Rose's lap and her shoulder against Laura's. Lestrade and Art are in the kitchen, with only eyes for each other. We could be completely alone.

"I found a thrill to press my cheek to," and he pulls me to his chest and cradles my head in those long fingers and I hear his heart beating loud in his ribs. I smile up at him, it's so bloody clichéd, so cheesy and yet I feel the happiest I can remember in a long, long time.

"You smile, you smile. Oh, and then the spell was cast." He dips his mouth to meet mine and kisses me gently. I yield to him, like he has yielded this dance to me. I'd forgotten the magic of a slow dance. The swaying movement, sensual and soft, the pressing of his body against mine, the fragile intimacy of the bubble of the moment around us. I've always loved this song but now the lyrics seem so apt, so true. His kisses become deeper, more searching and he tips my chin up to make it easier for him. The tautness of my whole body thrums like a bow string. His other hand leaves my waist where it has fallen, and pulls me close against him. I can't breathe, can't think. I moan and he growls deep in his chest. My knees are weak. The song ends and he pulls away from me.

He is smiling and I try to catch my breath. I am aware that Lestrade and Art are staring at us. I pull down my jumper, he straightens his shirt. We laugh.

"See? You can dance." I say to him quietly.

"What is that song? It's amazing?" he asks. Only Sherlock could not know Etta James. "It's made me want to play something. Would that be alright?" I nod; he's never played anything before, just that maddening twanging he does when he's thinking.

He goes to the fireplace where his violin is sitting on the high stool. He picks it up and spends a moment or two plucking and tweaking. I sit in the armchair. Lestrade and Art, seeing what is happening, come and sit on the other chair, Art on the arm and Lestrade in the seat. They are still close, nearly touching. Lestrade's hand might be on Art's back.

Sherlock stands with his back to the fire and begins to skim the bow over the strings. The room becomes silent as he starts to play. The music is light, teasing and then deepens into a more rousing, stirring refrain which weaves through the whole piece. Quiet and then louder he invokes such passion and such delicacy from the instrument.

It's amazing, yet another startling attribute of Sherlock Holmes. Those long fingers flick over the frets, they grip the bow and I blush as I watch him, familiar with how that grip feels, how those fingers can elicit the same passion, the same drawn out pleasure in my body. Everyone is wrapped in his music.

His eyes are shut and he sways slightly with the rhythm of his playing. His hair falls over his face and he doesn't move it. I watch him as he loses himself in his melody. It's incredibly erotic, the tension and the precision of his fingers on the instrument is all too known to me, the biting lip, the frown of concentration something I have seen in his face before. He even has the flush of blood at his open shirt neck. His feet are planted apart; his stance open and I can't help but cast my glance along those lithe limbs. He is all elbows and joints and sharp bones. He makes my mouth dry. God I love him. And how much I want him right now.

He bends with the notes, like some tall tree caught in the wind. The music is not abating and I feel a sort of enchantment slipping over me, as though this time has been spelled out in capital letters or underlined somehow. Like someone, somewhere, wants to me treasure this feeling, this moment where he is abandoned and open. I look at the others; I can see from their faces that they feel it too. It's almost too intimate, too personal to watch him doing this and yet none of us can stop watching him, he is mesmerising.

The tune ends and he is panting slightly, his chest rising and falling with the effort of what he has just done. He smiles and flicks his hair back from his face. He looks about him as though he is surprised anyone was listening. Art begins to clap. Lestrade joins him and soon we are all applauding Sherlock. He looks embarrassed; he twists his mouth and gives a small self conscious bow and laughs.

Laura gets up from the sofa and crosses the room.

"That was amazing. I knew you played but...wow. What was it?" she says and kisses him lightly on the cheek.

"Bach, violin concerto number one in A minor." He says self consciously but still precise." Laura nods appreciatively.

"It was lovely. Thank you. Look, we're going to go now, I'll send some people over to tidy up for you tomorrow, is that ok?" Sherlock nods.

"Of course. I'm glad you came. And thank you for the present downstairs." He remembered to thank everyone, I smile. Laura's face registers surprise and she grins at me.

"Oh! I've something else! I almost forgot. Rose? Will you pass me my bag?" Rose has her arm around Clara on the sofa; she gets up and pulls Clara with her. She gives Laura the bag. Laura gets out an envelope and passes it to Sherlock.

"Just a little extra for the birthday boy." She kisses him again. Then she kisses me on the cheek too. "We're going to give Clara a lift. Art do you need one?" Art looks at Lestrade who shakes his head.

"No, I'm going to get a lift with Geoff." I look at Lestrade who refuses to meet my eye.

"What about RN?" says Sherlock, ever the image of tact and diplomacy; sometimes I think Mycroft got all those genes.

"Oh he texted to say he had to go earlier. Something about work I think. He won't mind." Art says the last words to Lestrade who, to be honest, doesn't look like he'd care if RN did mind. He stands up.

"Right, better be off then. Sherlock, John, thanks for a lovely party. I've really enjoyed myself." Lestrade shakes Sherlock's hand and clasps me on the shoulder.

"Have fun." I tell him. He grins.

"We intend to." Says Art and Lestrade blushes. It makes a change from me being the embarrassed one.

Everyone leaves together. Laura and Art are whispering to each other at the top of the stairs and giggling, I get the feeling that tonight will be chalked up as another of their adventures. I'm going to have to phone Geoff in the morning.

As soon as they are gone Sherlock takes my hand.

"Let's just go to bed." He says gently. I nod.

We lie down on the bed fully dressed. He is rubbing his hand through my hair and kissing my face. Already I can feel the tension mounting inside me. It's like my body has counted the whole evening as foreplay. I stroke his collar bone, slipping my fingers under his shirt and he sighs and tips his head back. He doesn't stop touching me but I can see that he is feeling as turned on as I am. We share turns at stroking and touching each other. I memorise the feel of his skin, the difference in texture as I undo his shirt buttons and slide my hands over the fabric and onto the smooth silk of his shoulders.

He hitches my jumper at the back and rubs along my muscles, kneading and massaging gently, sweeping his warm hands down over my buttocks. He pulls me flush against him and I feel how hard he is. He blinks at me slowly and puts his tongue to his bottom lip.

"I love you." He says very deliberately and it's like he's never said it before. So much longing and passion in that deep voice that I can almost not catch my breath. I nod, helpless in that intense gaze.

He kisses me again, his tongue searching my mouth, plundering and desperate. His fingers are on my nipples teasing and pinching. I buck forward. Even though this haze of lust I know how I want him. I want to feel him inside me. I put my hands on his cheeks and pulls away, he frowns.

"You feel great, this feels great. Honestly I am so bloody turned on now. Here." I take his hand and press it against my erection. He smiles slowly, bites his lip. "See? How do you want to do this?" Even though I know what I want it's still his birthday, still his turn to choose. He pretends to think, he even pulls his hand back from me, my flesh aches for his touch again, and steeples his hands. He rests his nose on his middle fingers.

"I want to be inside you John. I want you to be my birthday present." He says this seriously, his voice dark and thrilling. I swallow and nod.

Slowly, carefully we take off our clothes kissing and touching where we reveal bare skin. He unfastens my jeans and I unfasten his trousers. His fingers trail fire over me, igniting me and forcing my focus to where they touch. He kisses along the underneath of my arms; the soft skin inside my elbows makes me writhe and gasp. His long fingers trace the skin of my thighs up and up and skimming the hair between my legs, I arch up from the bed eager for his touch to complete this feeling.

And I touch him, marvelling at his pale skin, the smoothness of his chest against the hard buds of his nipples. I twist and rub until he pants my name, pulls my hands down onto his cock. I barely touch him, the heat from his body and the silken skin stretched tight with his desire are intoxicating. I want to drink him in, eat him alive. I trail my tongue down from his nipples, past his navel, following the thin line of dark hair until the scent of him and the warmth of him overwhelms me and I touch my mouth to the tip and am rewarded by a long shuddering sighing of my name.

"Oh John, John." I smooth my lips over him and swallow him down in one wet motion. It feels like his entire life is inside me, like all that intellect, that concentration is condensed into those hard inches. I lap my tongue against him and he bucks up from the bed, his hands in my hair and then fluttering away as though he doesn't know what to do. I glance up and he is clutching the bedclothes, his head thrown back in abandon, mouth open, eyes wide and staring.

I suck him hard, hollowing my cheeks and tightening my lips over his sensitive skin. He shudders. I pull back along the length of him and let him free. He is shaking, he looks down at me.

"Lie down." He says, his voice is commanding and I know that it's his lust, his desire, speaking through him. I lie beside him and he pushes me onto my back. He licks his palm with that long pointed tongue, eyes never leaving mine and then he strokes me with his wet hand. His touch is demanding, hard and I know how much he wants me because I can feel that Sherlock shaped space inside me yearning, longing for him. I wriggle my legs apart. He doesn't need another invitation.

He kneels between my legs, and strokes along my body. I reach over for the lube on the bedside cabinet and I squirt it into my hand. I slide it over his cock, he groans and watches me. He rubs his hand over mine and slick the lube over his fingers. Then he opens me, gently carefully. I don't want his fingers. I grab the base of his hard on and guide him to me, he moans, my desperation to feel him inside me turns him on.

Slowly he gives me inch after inch. I breathe out, relaxing my muscles and opening myself wider for him. He is panting, short intense breaths which tell me how good this is feeling to him. His hand pumps my cock and he thrust himself deeper, unable to be patient any more. I don't want him patient. I want to see that side of him, the desperate, needy side which forgets to be gentle. I want all of him.

When he inside me as far as he can go, and the burning sensation has become a steady, blood throb of pleasure, he is still. He looks down at me and smiles.

"Oh god. You feel so good." I nod my body is alive with desire. I feel like I should be glowing in the dark, so intense, so extreme is this feeling. He pulls back slowly, slowly. The contrasting sensations of fullness and emptiness is exhilarating. He thrusts forward and I arch from the bed, moaning and clawing the bed sheets.

"God, Sherlock. Just do it. Harder, faster. I want more." He is grunting with every thrust, snapping his hips forward as he takes me. One hand is propped on my knee and he grabs my cock with the other hand, fisting his long fingers around me in time with his thrusts.

I can feel my muscles tightening, the unstoppable fizzing building in my stomach. All I am is that burning, that pain and that pleasure. I look at his face, flushed and concentrating. He's so beautiful, so hungry. His eyes are squeezed shut, his brow furrowed, his teeth biting on his bottom lip as he tries not to hurt me. I reach down, grab his buttocks and pull him closer, deeper. His eyes open wide and he loses that last stem of control.

"John, oh John. God, you feel so good. I'm going to... you're making me..." He comes, I feel him twitching inside me and I spill over the edge. I come hard, all my essence focussed into that part of my body in his hands.

He slowly edges out of me, we are sticky and sweaty. I wince slightly as we separate. He kisses me and flops down beside me on the bed.

"Happy birthday." I say smiling, eyes still shut as I try to calm my breathing. He chuckles.

**Ok I know I said Sunday but I couldn't help myself. Now it definitely will be Sunday but at least you can re read this if you want to! I think I'm creating a sideline in one shots. Sherlock's birthday entitlements, what happens when Lestrade takes Art home? Even Clara, Laura and Rose...maybe we can vote...: D let me know how you thought the party went. It'll keep me going until I can get back to the boys.**

**The Baker St Irregulars! It'll be weird to go to Sunday without you: PrincessNala and Peachsilk (think we need a plan for bc and that frock?) Darmed (do hope you're ok babes) Clubba Bear, Tasty- Kate ,2cajuman2, Tanya Zsa Zsa, Munchiees!, Aelfric's cat , Nellyington, mrs winny, Despairandcupcakechild!, Mouserjb4 ,Tillif and Harpyquin and Jazzysatindoll,thegeekyprincess and Flabagash! And all the new people who just found us! I'll be checking email tomorrow morning, off to bed now. Cold not abated yet. All hail the great god Lemsip!**

**Love you OHOB and Reggie Cx**


	11. Yorkshire

Morning pokes its fingers through the chinks in the curtains of Sherlock's room. I stretch and yawn and wonder what the time is. Sherlock is curled in at my back and he moves and mumbles as my waking disturbs him. There is a ringing noise, I realise this is what has woken me. It is the phone.

I lean out of bed and fumble in the wreckage of our clothes and locate the phone. I look at the screen, there is no caller ID but I recognise the number, Mycroft.

"Hello, John," his voice is so smooth and he sounds like he knows just what I was up to last night, I find myself blushing.

"Hi Mycroft, erm, what can we do for you?" Sherlock lifts his head from the pillow with startling speed, eyes wide open.

"Well, it seems that your ghost is in Special Ops." He chuckles, I don't get it.

"Oh? What do you mean?"

"Well, we have Jamie McMurray in a secure government house but he's seen the ghost again. This spectre must have damned good tracking skills."

"He's seen it again?" Sherlock snatches the phone from me. I raise my eyebrows and lift my hands before they're caught in the violence of the theft. I flop back on the bed. "Yes, I thought that too. Right. Thanks. Yes, no, I haven't worn it yet. Neither has John. Yes. _Ok_. Thank you." I grin; Sherlock's voice is dripping with contempt. He drops the phone on the duvet as though it's something hideous and flops back next to me.

"How do you feel about Yorkshire?" He turns his head to me, expression enquiring.

"Yorkshire? You want me to go to Yorkshire? Why?" He sighs and stretches his arms up and his feet down.

"Because there's something missing John. And I think I know what it is but I need the proof. And I won't get it, but you might." I frown.

"Proof? Of what?"

"There's something in Freddy's past, something about which you need to get Sharon to tell you. I can't find any evidence, but it must be there!" He leaps out of bed with a jump. "Get up quickly!" I protest but he pulls me to my feet. Seeing my lack of clothing he throws me the gown Mycroft bought and I obediently put it on. He's putting on his own on and laughing. He grabs me to him and kisses me passionately, one hand under the robe, stroking, teasing. I sigh into the kiss. Then I hear a mechanical click.

Sherlock's other arm is out and he's taken a picture of us on the phone. Before I can say anything he releases me and sends the picture on. I shake my head and snatch the handset.

"Not to Mycroft, Sherlock. Tell me you didn't send that to Mycroft!" The picture shows clearly where his hand is and the look on my face, my entire posture, shows how much I'm enjoying it. I sigh and check the sent messages. Yes, he sent it to Mycroft.

He is grinning and he kisses me again and runs away, out of the room.

"Pack! You need to pack!" he shouts. "Just a day-bag! Not overnight!"

So it's 10.30am and I'm on the train. Sharon's going to pick me up at the other end and it's going to take me about three hours, apparently. Sherlock had booked the ticket online and handed me the mobile when he'd already dialled Sharon's number.

"Oh it'll be really nice to see you John," she sounded genuinely happy to hear from me. "Are you sure you can't stay overnight?" Sherlock was shaking his head so I told her no.

"Why am I not staying over? It's a hell of a journey to do in a day." He looks over the top of the laptop which he is switching off and packing into the bag for me to take.

"Because I need you back here." He says simply, raising an eyebrow like it's the most obvious thing ever. I nod.

"Oh, right then. Ok."

Half an hour later he hands me my laptop bag as I get into the taxi.

"Keep your phone on." He says firmly as he checks my pocket a little rather too enthusiastically to check I have the mobile in question.

"Why?" I stop his frantic frisking of my pockets and show him the phone in the laptop bag.

"Because I might want to get in touch with you." He shakes his head like I'm so stupid he can't believe it.

"Sherlock, you don't have a phone to call me from." I say this slowly. He blinks at me and produces a shiny new phone from his trouser pocket.

"Yes I have."

"When did you get that? Where did you get that from?" he grins.

"Daddy, birthday present. I've put my number in your phone."

"Oh. Right. Good, that's good. I can let you know when I'm on my way home then." He nods and puts it carefully back in the same pocket; I can see he's determined not to lose this one.

Anyway, I'm on the train. Bored. Not that I'm going to shoot a wall, you understand but I've been playing on YouTube and Googled Sherlock for about an hour and despite his fascinating website, now I'm bored again. My fellow passengers do not inspire any interest either. Two older ladies sit opposite to me and a young woman is in the double seat across the aisle. Further down are two men who might be together but I've even stopped trying to guess.

From the laptop bag my phone beeps. I pick it up and unlock the screen and it's Sherlock. My heart beat picks up a little and I smile.

"How's the journey? Anything exciting happening? SH" I text him back.

"Nope. Dull as dishwater. Wish you were here. JW" A moment later the phone beeps again, one of the elderly ladies looks up from her 'Take a Break' magazine.

"I wish I was there too. I need distracting. You could distract me. SH" I look at the phone. Oh god, not more holes in the wall, Mrs. Hudson will kill us. I tap out a hasty reply.

"Sherlock, don't shoot anything. JW" I put the phone back on the table and get back to looking out of the window, watching England stream by in a hurry of leafless trees and drab fields. The phone beeps.

"What I'd really like to be doing is making you nice and " I gape at the phone. He didn't just say that. I read it again, not even trying to fool myself that this doesn't make me feel a little excited.

"Sorry? You're not really initiating phone sex are you? JW" I put the phone down. It beeps again.

"Yes I am. I'd like you hard, desperate and begging me to fuck you. SH" Jesus. I'm aware that my nipples feel super sensitive through my jumper and I am half hard just from these words. I cough and the elderly lady from before looks over and smiles. I try to smile back and shift in my seat. I'll murder him when I get home. Hoping to stop the game I send a text back.

"Sherlock. Not the time for that. Thanks, JW" There is a longer pause this time, maybe he's listened to my warning I think. I have to confess part of me feels a bit disappointed he gave up so easily. The phone beeps, it sounds louder this time.

"So, you're not getting hard now then? Thinking about me sucking your cock? Because I doubt that John. SH" The words go straight into my veins and rush to my groin where they proceed to give me a raging hard on. I sit up slightly and pull at the knees of my jeans, hoping to relieve the uncomfortable tightness of the fabric. The phone beeps again without me even replying.

"Did I tell you I love how you taste? And how slippery and soft your skin is when you're stiff. Yum SH" Oh not the bloody smileys again. But the thought of him thinking those words, never mind writing them down and sending them brings the image of him, eyes open, lips closed around me, into my head with startling clarity that I might just moan.

"Are you ok dear?" The older lady opposite stops her reading and puts her hand on the table towards me. "Only you're very flushed." I nod and rub my hand over my face.

"Yeah, thanks. I think I've got a cold coming." I manage a shaky smile. I pick up the phone and a message arrives while I look at it.

"Are you really hard John? Do you think there'll be that bead of spunk on the tip which I like to lick off? Would you like to be in my throat or..? SH" I think I must make a small involuntary noise. He used the word spunk, good god. It's such a schoolboy word but I can imagine that upper class growl as he says it. I put my face in my hands, trying to steady my breathing. The pulse of my blood is hard now, to the point of drowning out all the noise, the train on the tracks, the other passengers. Beep beep.

"Personally, I'd like it if you fucked me. Hard and a bit brutally. Some hair pulling. I liked the hair pulling. And you could tell me how tight I am, how much I belong to you. Open me up John, make me yours. SH" Oh my god. I can't even see anything now but the image he has planted in my head. Him on the bed, legs splayed wide, wanting me, ready for me to take him. I glance at the old ladies, both just reading their magazines unaware that opposite them is man being driven mad with lust by his incorrigible boyfriend's wilful abuse of the mobile network. I tap a reply.

"Yes Sherlock, am now as hard as a pole. Thanks. What am I supposed to do about that? JW" I try to distract my body, sip my British Rail tea, cold. Yuk. I look out of the window trying hard to avoid the fact that I am so turned on and I'm in public and it's just bloody wrong. The phone beeps, I look at it accusingly.

"Well, you could always go into the bathroom and imagine it's me? SH" I roll my eyes. Oh god I might have to, this problem doesn't seem to be going away. It beeps again.

"Oh, let me know if you do decide to wank it off. I like watching you do that. This is nearly as good as watching. SH" I stand up, clutching my jacket over me in what I hope is a nonchalant fashion but granny is on her feet too.

"Ooh dear, you do look ill. Are you alright? Maybe you should go to the bathroom." I nod, wordlessly and hope that my state of arousal is easy to mistake for a cold.

"Here, take these." She hands me a small plastic bag of tissues. The situation is so ridiculous that I almost laugh. I use my free hand to accept the tissues. I grab the phone with the same hand and nod my thanks. I flee to the bathroom. Thank god it's empty.

The cubicle is small and I lock the door hastily. I look about me, relatively clean because we've only just begun the journey. I look at myself in the mirror. I do look ill, my eyes glance to my jeans, ok not so ill. I lock the door, check it twice. Beep beep

"Are you in the bathroom yet john? I want to hear you come for me. SH" I slump down against the wall, propping myself on the washbasin and text him back.

"In bathroom. What am I supposed to be doing?" The answer is almost immediate.

"Unfasten your jeans, pull down your shorts, touch yourself for me. One hand. Text with the other. SH" I do as he says, one trembling hand unbuttons my jeans, frees my hard on. The weight of blood and flesh as it is released is overwhelming.

"Touch myself?" beep beep.

"Yes, softly, rub the tip with your thumb, you know how." I stroke my fingers lightly over my hard cock. I imagine those hands are his, long and delicate on my sensitive skin. I flick my thumb and moan. Beep beep.

"Are you moaning john, are you saying my name yet?" God, I groan as I read this last message. Beep beep.

"Harder john, squeeze at the base and pull along the length. Touch yourself for me." The words inflame me as nearly as much as the actions he has commanded. I fist myself, hard like he wants me to. Beep beep.

"Does this feel good john? Don't answer me. I'm imagining you now, moaning and wanking off, thinking of me. Lick your palm." Ah god. He's trying to kill me. Ex army doctor found dead with stiffy in British rail toilets, I can see the headline now. I lick my palm, tasting my body scent on my skin; it reminds me of him now.

When my wet fingers touch my hard flesh I hear myself moan again.

"Harder, harder. Come for me john. I want to hear you coming." I am frantic, rhythm gone, all modesty or awareness of the outside world gone now as I focus on my hand and my cock. I am clutching the phone for dear life. It rings in my hand. I barely register Sherlock's name on the ID, I click the call, slow my hand, press the phone to my ear.

"john." it's just his voice. Just him saying my name but I can't help myself. I come hard, twitching and thrusting into my palm.

"Oh god, Sherlock oh god." There is just the sound of him breathing at the other end. I pant my breath out, trying to calm down. When I have regained some composure I laugh. "Hi." I say. He chuckles.

"Hi, having fun? Who'd have thought public transport could be so invigorating?" I laugh again. I hear someone speaking in the background. What? Where is he?

"Sherlock..." I begin but he interrupts me.

"Mycroft says hello john." Mycroft? Oh god.

"You're with Mycroft? Have you been with Mycroft since..?"

"Mmm. I was bored." I sigh. Surely Mycroft will know what we've been... what Sherlock has just made me...? "Mycroft said I should text you the list of questions I'd like you to ask Sharon. Did you get them all down?" His voice is teasing. I laugh.

"Yes, I think they're committed to memory."

"Good. Right must be off. Have fun in Yorkshire!" he chuckles.

"Bye, see you later." I switch the phone off and start to clean myself up. It's got to be one of my more interesting train journeys.

**No time for a long chapter! Too bloody busy at the moment but didn't want to leave you dry so I hope you liked this!**

**The Baker St Irregulars! Sorry I've been too busy to write: PrincessNala and Peachsilk Darmed (do hope you're ok babes) Clubba Bear, Tasty- Kate ,2cajuman2, Tanya Zsa Zsa, Munchiees!, Aelfric's cat , Nellyington, mrs winny, Despairandcupcakechild!, Mouserjb4 ,Tillif and Harpyquin and Jazzysatindoll,thegeekyprincess and Flabagash! Cold a bit better but need tiem to write! Argh. Hope you enjoyed this!**

**Love you OHOB and Reggie Cx**


	12. A Realisation, an Invitation and a Penet

It turns out I don't have to ask Sharon anything. Just as well really because Sherlock didn't actually tell me what he wanted to know in the end.

Sharon's house is spotless, I don't know how she does it with the twins being just at the age where their pulling themselves up on the furniture and taking their first steps. She looks drawn but still pretty. The contrast between the woman who hands me the cup of tea and the woman smiling on the wedding photo on the wall is marked and sad.

"Here you go babes," she smiles and she sits down, hoisting the nearest baby, Freddy I think, onto her knee.

"Cheers. These two are great aren't they?" I tickle the other twin, if that one's Freddy this one must be Jamie. He giggles and he looks just like his dad. Somehow seeing Freddy's resemblance in those chubby features makes this whole business worse.

"I don't think I would have survived all this if it wasn't for them. Something to live for you know?" I nod; I can't say anything can I? We've already talked about what I'm doing in London, the edited version of course because I can't expect Sharon to keep a fantastic bit of gossip. Like the fact I'm living with a man, a secret. She's told me about how great Jamie's been to them, I try to look sympathetic but I'm finding it hard to think about Jamie with anything but contempt.

"It must have been hard Sharon, knowing he wasn't going to be here when they were born." She smiles a sad smile and kisses the child on her knee.

"Yeah, especially if we didn't know if they were going to be ok. Thank god they are. It would have been the end of me." she kisses the child again, her voice breaks.

"Were they ill? Complications? Was it about them being twins?" she shakes her head, reaching for a tissue.

"No, nothing like that. It's just Freddy had found out just after I got pregnant that there was a history of ill health in his family. A genetic strain passed on through the father. It's a rare condition and it really speeds up once they get to their twenties. He was worried sick." I frown, thinking of Freddy's brother and sister I know from the wedding. I didn't know they were ill, Freddy never mentioned it. I scrabble around in my brain for their names.

"Stephen? Is he ok? He was a really nice bloke I remember. He and I were on the same table at your wedding." Sharon looks up, she looks stunned for a minute and I wish I'd never mentioned the wedding. Then she seems to shake herself.

"Oh. Oh right. Course I haven't told you have I? You wouldn't know." I shake my head, no idea what she's talking about. "Freddy was adopted. He didn't know for ages, not until Dorothy, his adopted mum died and his dad told him." things start to click into place in my head, is this what Sherlock had worked out?

"Adopted? That must have been a shock." She nods and outs the baby down where he crawls over to his brother. They sit there, mini Freddies. It breaks my heart.

"Well, yeah at first but you know how Freddy was, took everything in his stride. Met his sister and his mum. Dad had died a while back, suicide it turned out." Her voice falters and she dabs her eyes with the tissue. I go and kneel on the floor in front her and put my hand on her knee. She pats it absent mindedly. "Yeah well, he went to meet them and they seemed really nice. Lovely actually. Sister still sends me money now and again." She glances to the sideboard where some pictures in frames are standing.

"So, where they at the funeral?" I am trying hard to think about who was there, why weren't we introduced?

"No, they had a family problem to deal with. They came to the wake afterwards though. You weren't there were you?" I shake my head.

"No, me and the lads went and had our own wake." She smiles at me.

"The lads, that's what Freddy used to call you lot. Jamie's been like a dad to these two. He's a good man you know. When's he coming back from London?" she frowns at me.

"Soon I hope. He's staying with some other friends at the moment." She finishes her tea and moves one of the twins from the table where the remote controls are sitting. "Have you got any biscuits Sharon?" she goes into the kitchen and, feeling like Sherlock Holmes more than John Watson I get up and scan the pictures on the sideboard.

I was right one of them is of Freddy's real family. He's standing in the middle of two women. One is older and clearly his real mum. He has her nose and her smile. The other woman, the sister, fills my body with a cold tingle. It is Teresa Connolly, the medium.

The realisation is still sinking in, still filtering though my brain when Sharon comes back with a plate of chocolate digestives. I take two numbly. I have to phone Sherlock. I glance at the time and Sharon sees my gaze.

"I'll run you back down to the station if you give me a hand getting the boys in the car seats." She says touching my shoulder. "It's been lovely to see you again John. Come again won't you?" I smile and nod.

She doesn't get out of the car at the station; it's too much hassle getting the babies out of the car and back in again. She kisses me through the window, grabs my neck and pulls me in.

"Make sure you do come again John. And bring your girlfriend too." She smiles.

"Girlfriend? Why d'you think..?" Her smile broadens

"Because I've never seen you looking so happy and healthy John. You were always the least carefree of the lot of the lads. Now you look really happy, really contented. Whoever she is, she's good for you." I smile.

"Ok I will. If you're ready for her." she laughs.

Once the train starts I phone Sherlock. No answer, no answer phone either. What kind of contract is he on? This is frustrating. I tap out a text.

"I know something. Phone me. JW" That should make him phone I think smugly. I put the phone on the table and close my eyes for a nap. It seems like seconds until the phone rings. I pick it up and click it on.

"Hello, I thought that text might pique your interest." There is laugh on the other end. It's not Sherlock's laugh.

"Ooh darling, I don't want to know what you texted him, what am I saying? Of course I want to know!" It's Art. I smile.

"Hey Art, how're you? How did Thursday night go?" I add, remembering his exit with Lestrade. There is a chuckle in the background, it's familiar voice. "Is he still there? Didn't you let him go yet?" Art laughs loudly.

"Let him go? John, you underestimate my powers! And you presume he'd want to go. Anyway," he adds still giggling, "he did go to work on Friday. He just came back here afterwards." Wow. Go Lestrade! I make a mental note to high five him Laura style when I see him.

"Well, nice to hear you're having fun Art. It's a good thing." Art's voice is softer suddenly.

"Yes it is. A very good thing. Which is," he goes back to the Art I know, teasing and witty. "Why I'm ringing. We were wondering if you two wanted to come round for dinner one night this week."

"A foursome? With you two?" The idea is genius. Could be tremendous fun. And chance to get my own back on Lestrade for all that grief he's give me since I got with Sherlock.

"Well, I didn't say a foursome darling," hysterical laughter from Art and then from Lestrade's deeper guffaw. "But maybe if we feel up to it after dinner John..." he sniggers, I sigh.

"Ok sorry, I meant the four of us getting together for dinner." Before he can make another comment I carry on. "I'll have to ask Sherlock but I'd love to. Not sure when though, Jamie's ghost case has heated up."

"Oh? Really? Well ask the Brain and then get back to me. Leave a message if I'm too busy to answer." More giggles. I roll my eyes. "How's the case going then?" He sounds like he's trying to concentrate on the conversation, what is Lestrade doing? I give him the bare facts but include the detail about Teresa Connolly, which will really piss Sherlock off if he knows that I told Art first. Should have his phone on then shouldn't he?

"This poor woman is left with a baby and no husband?" He sounds suddenly serious. It makes me wonder about his childhood.

"Two babies, she's had twins..." There is a long pause, a slight moan, what are these boys up to? As I wait for Art to answer me I look out of the window, my face reflected back over trees and fields. We enter a tunnel and the connection goes funny. In the window two Johns look back at me. The two faces register the dawning thought which is shedding its light on the impossible puzzle before me. Twins, Sharon had twins!

The tunnel ends and Art is talking.

"Right well, let me know John, oh god, better go!" There is a catch in his voice which sounds distinctly like a groan. The line goes dead. Everyone having fun but me.

But something has made sense suddenly. Twins run in families, who's to say that Freddy hasn't got a twin out there? A twin that none of us knew about?

The rest of the journey goes too slowly. I am willing the train to go faster. I haven't texted Sherlock the news because I want to tell him. I've phoned though and there's no answer. I have another cup of tea and another extortionately priced sandwich.

Its dark when I get to King's Cross, still no answer from Sherlock and I'm starting to worry. I get the cab back with concern starting to tip toe into my head. I'm tempted to ring Mycroft but that would really be bloody desperate.

In the cab I check my mobile. All the texts to Sherlock are still in my outbox, they have never been sent. God, technology. The cab pulls up outside 221b and the lights are on. I step out of the cab and watch his shadow cross the room. He's home. He's safe. Relief floods my system and something else. There's something voyeuristic and naughty in watching him, even if it is only his shadow. The idea of what I can do next comes fully formed into my head.

I take out the phone and text him.

"Are you busy? You've missed my texts. JW" For some reason this text goes through. Maybe the technology gods smile on sexting, I smile to myself. Beep beep. I hastily turn the phone to silent mode. Then I check the reply.

"Have I? Damn. When are you coming home? I am bored. Thinking about getting the gun out. SH" He's just trying to worry me. This time it's my turn.

"Oh don't get the gun out Sherlock; I can think of something I'd rather you got out. " Take that, I think as I press send. I huddle into the doorway of 221b and look at my phone. Beep beep.

"Really? This is exciting! What would you rather I got out?" I chuckle. I knew he'd love this.

"Well, the lube for a start and then there's a certain, smooth, hard, sticky part of your anatomy that might be more fun to play with than the gun." It's barely seconds until he answers.

"Ok, I've found the part you referred to. And yes, it is smooth, hard and sticky. Surprisingly so. What shall I do with it John?" My breathing is hitched; I can feel myself hard in my jeans just from thinking of him hard and sticky. God, this man does things to me that I never thought possible. I send the next text, open the door and tiptoe into the hall. Upstairs I hear his phone beep. I know what he's reading.

"Just your fingertips Sherlock. Just your fingertips gently along the length. Get those fingers sticky. JW"

I carefully take the stairs, avoiding the creaky fifth step, on my toes along the edge near the wall, like they taught me in the army. Never thought I'd use that training for this though. I'm at the top of the stairs. Outside the door. The door to the room where Sherlock is touching himself, getting sticky because I told him to. Good god. The phone vibrates.

"I'm sticky John. And I want you. Do you want to hear me come for you?" My hand shakes as I look at the phone. My body, my hard cock, are screaming for me to go in there and fuck the man senseless but I have two more things I want him to do for me first.

"Lick along your thumb and index finger, purse them like a mouth. Imagine they're my lips Sherlock. Press them tightly down over your hard cock." From inside the flat I hear him moan as he does what I have asked. The sound is unravelling me, my blood feels like it's boiling.

"Oh god John, John." It's not a text although my eyes reflexively flicker to the phone. It's him; he's calling my name while he runs his hands over his erection, while he fucks my mouth in his imagination. Jesus.

"Open yourself for me Sherlock, with your fingers, three fingers. I want you imagining me inside you." I hear the phone drop to the floor, I hear him groan and the fizzing in my lower stomach becomes unstoppable.

"OhgodJohn." It's a gasp, a hissed in breath on which the unconscious words are carried like flames. I can't wait. I open the door and he's on the chair, trousers on the floor, shorts and lube beside them. His shirt is open and he's slumped back, legs splayed out so he can get his fingers inside himself. One hand on his cock and I watch those other fingers move inexorably in and out of his body. If a person could die of lust I would be in trouble.

He opens his eyes, they are heavy lidded, the pupils huge. His mouth is open, panting. He doesn't stop his movements and watching him like this is so erotic, so intimate and I am torn between watching him make himself come and taking over.

"Oh, oh." His body begins to twitch, buck and my decision is made right there. I cross the room and unfasten my trousers. I've kicked them off before I get to him. I grab both of his hands, whip the one on his cock away and drive those other fingers in hard. He arches towards me, his cock sticky and stiff. He wasn't lying. I bend my mouth to him and tightly slip my lips down the length of him. He tastes amazing, hot and salty and Sherlock. I close my eyes and hum. His hand is in my hair. I am still moving his other hand, pushing and thrusting those fingers inside him, opening him, stretching him.

When I know he is near the edge I pull them out, gently. I take my mouth away and stand up, my cock level with his face. I grab his hair and pull him to me; he kisses my engorged flesh briefly, enough to make me moan. I open his mouth with my fingers and push myself between his lips. He moans over me, the vibration is thrilling.

I thrust hard and angle his head with my fists in his hair so that he opens his throat to me. The heat, the wetness of his mouth, has me on fire. With what thought I have left I wonder whether I should come in his mouth, on his face, spray myself into his hair. The thought is exciting and makes me shudder nearer and nearer to orgasm. But then I think about how he stretched himself wide for me and the decision is made. I reluctantly pull myself from his lips with a pop. He is gasping.

"Turn around Sherlock, lean your arms on the chair. Let me see if you did a good job of getting yourself wide for my cock." He moans, closes his eyes and turns over, elbows on the armchair. His legs are splayed open, his cock bobbing between them like an invitation. But the real proposal, the real request, is the swollen, open space inside him. The space he made for me with his hand because I told him to.

I lube up and slide inside him, slowly but without the care I usually have to take. He sighs and pushes back against me. We are still for a moment; I am buried in him, owning him utterly. He is shaking. I pull back and he moans, sighs. He's still tight despite the preparation his fingers made for me. Tight and hot. God.

I slip back until I am almost out of him; he whimpers, pleads and says my name. I oblige him by thrusting forward, remembering his word from the texts this morning, I am brutal. He loves it.

I reach forward and grab his hair, arching him back, pulling him further onto me, impaling him completely. He cries out but it's not in pain. One hand on his nipple, one in his hair and my body plunges at him. We are sweating together, slippery, feral.

"Touch yourself. Touch our cock Sherlock. Make yourself come for me. I want to feel those muscles tighten; I want you to beg me to come inside you. Tell me Sherlock." I twist his head so I can see his face while I continue to fuck him hard. His hands are on his dick now, stroking and squeezing.

"Do you want me to come inside you Sherlock?" Each word is a thrust, a grunt. He tries to nod but my hand in his hair prevents him. His mouth is open, he's nearly too far gone for words.

"Yesyesyes. God John, yes. Come inside me. Please." He never ceases to astonish me, that voice, that plummy, well bred voice gasping out those words is intoxicating, exhilarating.

"I want to see that pretty face when you come Sherlock. I want to see those blue eyes wide and that perfect mouth screaming my name." My hand slips from his nipples down to his cock. His fingers fall away and I take over. Hand on his cock, hand in his hair, slamming myself into his body. I see him start to freefall, he shudders, opens his mouth.

"Oh John, John. Fuck me, take me. Oh god, come for me. Please I... please..." He starts to come, body jerking and clenching around me. The look on his face, the feeling of his body around me, his voice and the begging, the unformed confessions, the things he cannot say, combine to spill me into a violent orgasm.

"Sherlock, Sherlock. Oh yes, god, yes. All mine." I see stars, it feels like that last orgasm I might ever have. The feeling doesn't abate for longer than I have felt before. I am dragging in my breath, lungs on fire.

I am super careful as I slide out of him, strings cut he slumps down onto the floor. I kiss his face, he smiles wearily.

"Best birthday present ever." He mumbles. I frown.

"Who? Me?" he chuckles.

"Well, yes, but I meant the phone from Daddy." I laugh. Then I remember the failed texts. I lift my head form the rug where I am dribbling, exhausted after our exertions. He is looking at me with one large, sea blue eye. His mouth is twisted in a smile.

"I have some news about the case, about Freddy." He nods, wrinkling his face against the carpet.

"Can it wait until we're in the bath? I smell rather revolting." He grimaces.

**As well as being for Darmed, who I hope is feeling well, this chapter is for Peachy who I teased mercilessly with this bit of the story. Sorry babes, you love it really though right? I wasn't sure how john's rematch of the sexting would work but I think it went ok, what do you think? Is the plot too easy? Help me out here please. Oh, and have to say the title is purely silly.**

**Thank you as always to my lovely The Baker St Irregulars! It was awful for those few days with no you! PrincessNala(where have you gone?) and Peachsilk (hope it lived up to your expectations) Darmed (do hope you're ok babes) Clubba Bear, Tasty- Kate (time for a lie down?) ,2cajuman2, Tanya Zsa Zsa, Munchiees!, Aelfric's cat(I know, naughty John!) , Nellyington, mrs winny, Despairandcupcakechild!, Mouserjb4 ,Tillif and Harpyquin(nice to make you laugh) and Jazzysatindoll (busy drawing the violin scene and we love you for it),thegeekyprincess and Flabagash! And the new irregulars, let me know if you feel you need a name check. Thanks so much for all your kindness and support, they've made my experience of this so much more fun!**

**Love you OHOB and Reggie Cx**


	13. Revisiting Miss Connolly

Our bath is long and languorous. We're used to being careful that the water doesn't cause a deluge in Mrs. Hudson's flat now and when Sherlock gets back in with beers for us both he hardly makes a ripple.

"So, you can tell me now I'm clean, what did you find out?" He passes me a bottle.

"Not that you don't already know though right?" he smiles with one side of his mouth.

"I have some theories but I don't know or I wouldn't have asked you to go to Yorkshire, no matter how exciting the journey up there turned out to be. Tell me what _you_ found." He drinks his beer, I laugh.

"Ok, be like that. Right well, Freddy was adopted." He nods slowly. I don't know why he's even asked me if he already knows.

"Brother?" he asks raising one eyebrow. I nod.

"Possibly twin brother?" I reply "though I'm not sure if Sharon's twins are identical or fraternal."

"That doesn't matter does it? Even if it's not genetic it's still possible to have two sets of twins in their family." He's right. He puts down his bottle on the side of the bath and puts his hands in the water; he plays his fingers over the surface. I've known him long enough now to know that this is him listening, occupying that brain so that it can subconsciously filter the things it doesn't need.

"Yep, ok. You're right. And there's a sister..."

"The medium." He states looking up at me, those blue eyes remote. It's amazing how he can be so here, so present one minute and gone the next. It's a good job I don't take it personally; I can imagine his other... experiments have though. I nod.

"Yes, the medium. When did you work that out?" he frowns, interrupted from his chain of thought.

"Straight away. She knew somethings she couldn't possibly have known John." I don't mention how she did a chilling impression of the sound my mother made as she died. He's right anyway about how she knew those details, no point talking about mum now.

"But no one's actually told me Freddy had a brother. He wasn't on the photo in Sharon's house, she didn't say anything." He sits forward; hands come up out of the water like a shark jumping for a baby seal, and grab my shoulders. He looks at me intently.

"What did she say, exactly?" I close my eyes and try to recall her words.

"She said that his dad had committed suicide, there was some kind of illness which got worse as they got older, and that his sister and mum weren't at the funeral because there had been some family emergency..."

"But she didn't say what?" I shake my head, I don't think so.

"So, could we assume that if Freddy did have a brother and something was wrong with him they might not attend Freddy's funeral and it might well still be termed a family emergency? She didn't mention any other family?" I twist my mouth, thinking.

"I suppose so, but Sharon only mentioned the mum and the sister. She never said brother."

"And if the brother was already ill with whatever their family illness is would Freddy have mentioned him to Sharon? With the possibility of her unborn children having the same hereditary problem?" he raises his brows, looks at me sharply. I think some more.

"I don't know. Maybe not eh? Hmm. How do we find out?" Sherlock stands up, water spills over the edge, I wince, he looks down and shrugs.

"Mycroft." He throws a towel around himself and stomps away leaving big wet footprints in his wake.

When I finish the beer and it's obvious Sherlock is not coming back I pull the plug, dry off and put on my new dressing gown. I wander into the lounge where Sherlock is through the kitchen, in his matching gown, just taking the caps off two more beers. He pulls a face at the gown and hands me the bottle.

"What did he say?" I ask, taking a swig.

"He's going to look for us but he was a complete prig about it. Honestly, I don't know how he got to be so influential." Sherlock looks sulky; Mycroft has this effect on him. "I should have asked Lestrade, he might have been able to help, twist some arms." This reminds me.

"Oh, Art called while I was on the train. He wants to know if we want to have dinner with him and Lestrade this week?" Sherlock grins.

"What? Lestrade and Art? You mean it wasn't just the one night?" Sherlock is laughing now. "Well, even I didn't see that one coming! I hope you told him yes." He goes into the lounge, still chuckling, shoulders shaking. I love him like this, when he's more human, more real somehow.

"Well, I said I'd ask you." I follow him and we sit on the sofa. He takes his phone from where he dropped it earlier, my stomach does a little flip at thinking about the exact circumstances, and he taps out a number.

"Lestrade? Hi, yes thanks. Dinner this week? When? Ok good. Yes I think so. A foursome?" he looks at me in alarm. "Are you sure he said that? Really? Well..." I shake my head vigorously. "No, I think he got that wrong. Can't see John... no. No. Right, so, when? Tomorrow. Tomorrow?" he asks me and I nod, shrug. "Ok. Good. What time? At Art's place? Ok. See you there. If you can still sit down by then." His eyes positively twinkle with malice at the last words and I hear Lestrade protest and then laugh. "Oh you haven't? You will. Bye!" He puts the phone on the table.

"They will." He says still grinning.

"Good. They deserve it." I say and he laughs more. "So, tomorrow night? What are we going to do about Freddy's 'ghost'?" Sherlock's hands are steepled under his chin.

"I think we need to visit Teresa Connolly again don't you?"

The next morning I wake up with Sherlock's feet on the pillow beside me. It's a bit of a shock and I sit up to see his head sprawled at the other end of the bed, arm over my legs. He moves at my shifting and mumbles something.

"The phone, don't forget the phone. Three fingers?" I smile to myself. It must be exciting in that head. I sit up a little and, with the sun slipping though the curtains, watch him wake up. He rubs his eyes before he opens them, yawns and then seems instantly awake. He sees me looking and smiles.

"Morning," I wave and his grin gets wider.

"What are you doing down there?" I raise my eyebrows and ask.

"I don't know. Is this the wrong end or are you at the wrong end? Which way do we sleep?" He looks confused. I point to the pillow.

"Well, I don't know about the circles you move in, but where I'm from we traditionally put our heads on the pillow." He laughs.

"How did I get down here then?" I shrug laughing.

"I'd better get back then." he dives under the duvet, all six foot something of him. As he wriggles, elbows and generally commando crawls up the bed he stops about my waist. Oh dear.

"And what's this Dr Watson?" he sniggers. "_Good_ morning!" Oh dear, dear.

He pulls down the waistband of my pyjamas with his teeth, his breath hot on my tender skin. He chuckles into my flesh and I whimper. He sniggers again.

It's half an hour before he lets me get up. He's in the bathroom doing the painful tooth brushing by the time I stagger out of bed, legs only just still working. He grins.

"We're going to see Miss Connolly in an hour. Do you want toast?" He's particularly affectionate and attentive, as he always is when he's just completely got his own way.

"Please. Is there a chance of a coffee?" I take my toothbrush.

"If you ask me nicely." he says as he leaves the bathroom. I slap him on the arse. He yelps and laughs. "Oh that's nicely enough. Anyone would think you wanted to give me ideas." He shouts as he heads for the kitchen. Oh god.

We're in the cab heading for Kensal Green, Sherlock is looking at his phone and I am looking out of the window. How do I feel about seeing this woman now I know she's a fake? Or at least as much of a fake that she lied to us, to Jamie about Freddy?

"Are we going to tell her that we know?" I ask Sherlock as he taps the screen and frowns. "What are you doing? Researching the case?" He ignores me, or doesn't hear me and carries on tapping for a minute and then he looks up.

"What? Case? Oh. No. No, I'm playing a game." He holds up the phone where there seems to be a number of brightly coloured shapes filling the oblong screen. I raise my eyebrows.

"Playing a game? God, Sherlock, when did you discover gaming?" He frowns and taps the screen furiously, the phone makes a trilling noise which I presume means he won the round he was playing and he puts it carefully back into the same pocket.

"Yesterday, after I texted you on the train. Mycroft can be very dull when he's expecting me to be grateful to him." I smile to myself.

"Did he think you were still texting me when you were playing a game on your phone." Sherlock nods, completely guilt free. "I suppose it's better than shooting the wall." He nods again.

"I think so. But I think I need to download some more." He frowns.

"Oh. Why? Is that one no good? Doesn't the phone come with a few already downloaded? Mine did?"

"Yes, it comes with several but I've finished them now." He looks out of the window again.

"Finished them? How do you mean finished? Got fed up of them?" He shakes his head absentmindedly.

"No I finished them; I got to the last level. Boring now."I rub my face with my hands. I should pimp him out to teenage geek boys, they'd love him.

"So, what are we going to say to Miss Connolly anyway? Are we confronting her?" He looks back to me and licks his lip, thinking. I watch his mouth and think about kissing him, it's what I do sometimes when he's occupied.

"I can't decide. Let's play it by ear." He is grinning; I have a bad feeling about this.

When we get out of the cab we don't walk in the direction I am expecting. Instead we turn left and start along the high street. Like most of these parts of London the shops are an eclectic mix; expensive foreign furnishings crowd next to Asian vegetable shops, posh hairdressers and coffee bars beside taxi offices and newsagents. I am following Sherlock's determined stride but I falter as he turns sharply into a ladies' hairdressers.

The smell of hair products and the warm current from hairdryers assaults me as I follow him inside. Everything is chrome and pink, fluffy lamps and fairy lights. Young part time staff bring coffee to women with towels on their heads reading Cosmo. The lighting is pink and intimate apart from the harsh spotlights over the long mirrors where clients are getting their hair styled. It is one of these lights which Sherlock grabs and angles at a woman wearing a black rubber cape. It takes me a moment to recognise Teresa Connolly.

"What? What the hell?" Splutters the stylist waving her scissors and comb like a ninja. Sherlock stops and gives her a look. She raises her eyebrows and walks away arms in the air like she's abdicating responsibility of the whole thing.

"Who? What are you?" Miss Connolly is half out of her seat but Sherlock pushes her back down. He picks up a hairdryer and plays with the nozzle dangerously, like it's a gun.

"Surely you recognise me? And John?" Sherlock waves the hairdryer to indicate me standing just behind him. I notice this whole conversation is happening through the mirror. Teresa frowns and then her face clears as she does, indeed, recognise us both.

"Oh. Yes of course. Well, what are you doing here I can't help you now, I'm having my hair done." She adds as though we maybe haven't noticed. I glance around everyone is staring.

"Really? Are you? Well, that's just astonishing and no, I hadn't noticed even though I am the world's only consulting detective." Sherlock is pacing, small steps back and forward in the mirror, Teresa's eyes follow him like a nervous spectator at Wimbledon. Then he leans in over her shoulder and hisses. "Of course I've bloody noticed." He straightens and in a much more normal, less threatening voice he adds.

"What are you having done?" He lifts a lock of hair and inspects it as though it isn't attached to a live, outraged woman. "Ah! Roots!" He turns and grins at me as though this proves everything. I have no idea what is going on. He frowns at me and whirls back on Teresa.

"I've called the police!" There is a shrill squeak from the returning stylist. "You can't just come in here and start menacing my clients. This lady's having her hair done!" Sherlock sighs dramatically and rolls his eyes.

"Is she? Is she really? Good grief! I don't know WHAT I expected to find in a hairdresser's!" Every word is a step advancing on the poor stylist who looks frightened out of her wits. The last words are shouted right in her face. I have to intervene. I put my hand on his arm and he looks at me. His expression is not friendly and I wait for him to register who I am. I can almost see the realisation on his face. He smiles briefly.

"Sherlock. Calm down."

"Yes, sherbet, calm down." The hairdresser puts out a hand tentatively clearly deciding that 'Sherbet' is a care in the community case of whom I am not taking good care. I glare at her and she scoots back behind the small, half moon counter.

Sherlock spins back to Miss Connolly.

"So we've established that I have noticed that you're having your hair done and yes, I am aware that this is a hairdresser's. Now, I have something to ask you and I want you to be very careful about your answer because..." He picks up some scissors from the wheeled trolley beside him and snips the air menacingly. Teresa shrinks down in the chair like she's trying to hide inside the rubber cape and I take a step forward and then back like a nervous dancer doing the cha cha.

Sherlock's scissors are slicing the air with a terrifying noise and a glitter of potential carnage near Miss Connolly's new hairdo. She squeaks, he grins.

"Do you know a man called Freddy Terry?" He asks calmly like he's asking if he can borrow her magazine. She's still clutching it and I can see the glossy pages trembling. She starts to nod but takes in the proximity of the scissors and instead mumbles a yes.

"Oh you do?" Sherlock's eyes are wide in mock surprise and he adds an extra snip to punctuate his question mark. "How do you know him?"

This scenario is like some dreadful drug induced version of the usual stylist/ client conversation which involves your weekend plans, boyfriends, celebrity gossip and holidays.

"He's my brother, he was my brother. Adopted. He's dead now." The words are whispered out, she sounds pitiful, scared and bullied. I touch Sherlock's arm again and he's just putting down the scissors when the door bangs open and a loud voice shouts in our ears.

"Holmes you muppet! What the bloody hell are you doing now?" It's Lestrade, obviously intercepting the call to the police and coming to rescue his favourite sociopath, and the general public.

Sherlock looks at Lestrade in the mirror and shakes his head; it seems like the mania, the fight, has gone out of him. He puts down the scissors and the relief in the room is palpable. He turns to Teresa Connolly who looks like she might cry.

"You've been a very bad woman." He says quietly. "You've fooled innocent people and put one man in fear of his sanity. You and your other brother."

The only reason I'm watching her face and not looking at Lestrade who looks exasperated, worried and bloody shattered, is because I know Sherlock is bluffing, he doesn't really know if there is another brother. Her eyes go wide and her mouth opens like she's going to speak but then she snaps her lips back together.

"Come on Sherlock. You can buy us coffee." Lestrade says firmly. Sherlock turns and stalks out of the salon. Everyone starts talking at once. Lestrade looks about the room, shrugs and makes an announcement.

"Sorry ladies, he doesn't like it when she lets someone else cut it. You know how these people are!" There is some giggling and he smiles broadly before following Sherlock out of the door. I hurry after them, trying not to laugh.

In the posh, vegetarian, organic, fair trade cafe down the road Lestrade comes back from the counter with three coffees. He sips his and sighs.

"God, I need that." He says quietly to himself. Then he opens his eyes and looks at me. His face has a serene but utterly knackered expression which I have become used to seeing in my own reflection over the past few months. I grin and hold up my hand.

"Geoff, I believe I owe you a high five." He grins and slaps my hand.

"Maybe more than one the way Art does things." He chuckles and I grin. He turns to Sherlock. "What the bloody hell were you doing in there?"

Sherlock's hands are steepled and his nose is resting on his middle fingers, his eyes are closed, at Lestrade's voice he snaps them open.

"That woman is..." he doesn't get to finish, I can see Lestrade is relishing this moment.

"Yeah, Freddy Terry's sister, the medium. So?" He winks at me, I wince and look sideways at Sherlock who is grinning.

"Geoff!" He grabs Lestrade's coat lapels and nearly kisses him, I've never seen Lestrade so scared and stunned. "Did you work that out? How? Which were the clues which lead you to the final deduction?" Bless him, he actually bounces on the fair trade, sustainably sourced, wicker chair. I shake my head.

"Er, no. John told Art. Yesterday." Sherlock's face falls and then he turns to me.

"You told Art? Before you told me?" he actually pouts sulkily. This is like that time I ate the first Jaffa Cake out of the box when they were allegedly _his_ Jaffe Cakes. I sigh.

"Yeah. Yeah I did. Sorry. I couldn't get hold of you." He goes quiet for a minute. He looks grumpily at Lestrade; I think he's more annoyed with Geoff than with me.

"I thought you'd deduced about Miss Connolly." He says in a small voice. I feel like a total bastard. I put my hand on his leg and squeeze. He smiles sideways at me, quirking his mouth. "I suppose it was a bit farfetched. I mean you were hardly going to match my mental capacities on the amount of sleep you've had Geoff." He grins. Lestrade rolls his eyes.

"Mind you," he continues, "sex does promote brain cell growth." Lestrade's eyes widen in mock alarm and he turns sharply to me.

"Stop now John! You're creating a monster!" Sherlock snorts and we laugh. Sherlock's phone rings and he leaves the cafe to answer it. I look at Lestrade.

"So, how are you doing?" I ask him. He smiles and shrugs.

"Ok."

"Ok?" I raise my eyebrows. He laughs.

"Ok, wel,l great actually. Yeah," he nods as though trying to convince himself, "yeah, great. Best I've felt in ages." He sits back, his shoulders drop, he looks peaceful, less haggard despite his obvious lack of sleep.

"And Thursday night?" I nod, indicating that I want some details. His grin widens.

"Would you believe me if I said we talked all night?" I shake my head.

"Nope. I wouldn't." He guffaws and then rubs his hands over his face.

"Ok, well not _all_ night. But we did talk a lot. Art's really interesting, he's funny and he's done things, been places." I look at Lestrade as he speaks, there's something shiny, something exciting, about how he talks about Art. I love it. Seeing him happy is just great. I realise he's still speaking. "And, well. You know he knows his stuff John. Bloody hell!" He shakes his head in admiration. "Thought I'd never be able to stand up again!" He grins, his mouth pulled wide as though he's amazed he just confessed this to me. I laugh too and shake his hand.

"Welcome to the club, Geoff Lestrade." He frowns.

"Club?" I nod and smile.

"The 'bit of rough of an upper class toff' club. We've got a Facebook page you know."

We're still chuckling when Sherlock comes back in, his face is grave.

"Mycroft wants to you to speak to Jamie. He says he wants to go home to Yorkshire." I shake my head.

"I can't do it, not right now. I just don't think I can look at him." Sherlock nods, sits down.

"That's what I told him but Mycroft's worried Jamie's suicidal." I blow out my next breath feeling resentful and irritated. Why should I care about Jamie? He's a prejudiced, murdering bastard. But I do. I do care. Maybe it says more about me than it does about him.

"I need some time to think about this. Maybe after our foursome, er dinner." I add catching Sherlock and Lestrade's exchanged glance.

**The Baker St Irregulars! You guys have really made these last few months of writing a million times more fun with your friendship and comments! PrincessNala and Peachsilk (here's your fix and thanks for the rec) Darmed (fab to hear the treatment seems to be working, we're thinking about you) Clubba Bear, Tasty- Kate (feel free to borrow MsB) ,2cajuman2, Tanya Zsa Zsa (I am really grateful for your re reading of the other fics and the detailed reviews) , Munchiees!, Aelfric's cat, Nellyington, mrs winny, Despairandcupcakechild!, Mouserjb4 ,Tillif and Harpyquinand Jazzysatindoll (go and find her profile on deviantart, she's a genius and she's drawn the violin, the dressing gown picture to Mycroft and lots more fantastic stuff based on these stories. Thank you darling, you are impressive!),thegeekyprincess and Flabagash! And the new irregulars, let me know if you feel you need a name check. Thanks so much for all your kindness and support, they've made my experience of this so much more fun!**

**Love you OHOB and Reggie Cx**


	14. Four for Dinner

The next afternoon I am shopping on Oxford Street. I hate Oxford Street but this was the best place to buy what I needed. Two hours, bruised ribs from the sharp elbows of bargain hunting pensioners, sore feet from being stomped on by high heeled teenagers and I'm on the Tube home. Thank god.

I sit watching the dark tunnels flash by, studiously avoiding my fellow Londoners' eyes as is the English custom and thinking about tonight's dinner at Art's house. It's going to be utterly intriguing seeing Lestrade in Art's company, he seemed so loved up when we saw him yesterday that I can hardly fathom it. But I'm happy for him, he deserves someone to give him some attention, make him feel good about himself. I don't know much about Geoff's private life, hell, I don't know if he even has one, but I do know he works too bloody hard and that he needs something to do other than solve crime. I smile as I realise that this could well describe Sherlock's life up until the last few months.

Thinking of Lestrade and Art brings my mind next to Clara, what happened after Sherlock's party? Strangely what she, Laura and Rose got up to seems much more private, more elusive to imagine. Maybe it's because they're women and my mind is still a gentleman somehow, it still feels improper trying to conceive of what their evening might have turned out like. I'll have to phone Clara though soon, check she's ok.

The train stops at Regents Park and some people shuffle off and more cram on. I shift the bag under the bench further away from the feet of the people forced down the carriage. I hope he likes it. It's strange, I've always liked buying presents but it's multiplied a thousand fold with Sherlock. Just seeing that look on his face as he registers that someone has bothered to buy him something, that they thought about him, never mind what the present is, just floors me. And then there's the added bonus that I seem to have the knack of getting just the right thing. It's never happened to me before.

Baker Street station. I jostle my way off the train.

"Excuse me, sorry, excuse me, thanks, can I just sneak through... thanks."

I begin the walk down the white tiled tunnels to reach the outside world. I check my watch. It's half four, it'll be already starting to get dark outside. I love London in the winter; the velvet blue darkness, the glow of the street lamps, the bare trees pointing their bony fingers to the sky, the life, the bustle in spite of the cold.

I flick my Oyster card over the machine and wait for the green tick and the barrier to open. I've hardly used my card since I met him, he always catches a cab. But sometimes I like to get the Tube, it reminds me of the city's history, it's so Victorian and uniquely London. And it's quicker.

Outside the sky is that darkening grey which makes me think of the coal fire in 221b, snuggling on the sofa with Sherlock and watching a Sunday afternoon black and white film even though I know that there will be no films tonight and it's Saturday anyway. Shoppers are rushing home, ready to put their glad rags on and go out into the West End. Which brings me to my adventure for tonight. Dinner, I stress the word to my brain which is already slightly worried about its own Freudian slip of the foursome, with Art and Lestrade. I'm sure it'll be fun but it's a bit like the fun of going to see a horror film, you never know what will happen.

I unlock the downstairs door and make my way up the stairs. There is no noise from the flat and when I open the door the lounge is dark, the curtains barely open. My eyes adjust from the light of the landing and I see Sherlock lying on the sofa staring at his phone and tapping frantically.

"Not gaming again?" He jumps when I speak, he clearly didn't notice me come in. I switch on the light and he winces, screwing up his face like an angry hedgehog awoken early from its hibernation. The phone makes a noise and he grins. Then he throws it onto the coffee table, stretches and pops his knuckles. "I take it you won again?" He nods smugly.

"What's that?" He points a long finger at the bag I have carried in.

"Something." I say elusively and he leaps off the sofa, steps onto and over the coffee table and stalks towards me.

"Something?" His voice is dark, seductive and he wraps his arms around me and brings his face close to mine. "Something for me? Do I have to earn it?" His fingers skim down, under my jacket. I shiver. As much as my body wants him we haven't got time for this. If I show him the present _and_ let him do what he wants we'll never get out again.

"Yes it's for you and no you don't have to earn it, well, maybe later?" He grins and jumps up and down twice, claps his hands and then leans forward, trying to see into the bag. There's no point holding the moment off, I hand the bag to him.

He gets out a box, white and green. He reads the side and frowns. Typical Sherlock, no idea what a Wii is. When he reads the blurb _then_ he gets excited. He rips open the box, packaging spills everywhere and he's plugging in cables and pressing things before I can speak. I silently hand him the two AA batteries for the remote and the 'Sports Resort' game. He glances at it.

"Fencing?" He asks, shaking his head, almost beside himself with glee. I nod. He grins like an idiot. "Did you know I could fence?" I am not going to tell him that I googled him and found him on his school fencing team back when he was a teenager. It'll only further inflate that ego. I just shake my head and shrug. He's not paying attention anyway so I wander into the kitchen and get a beer and settle in for the show.

I perch on the arm of the chair while Sherlock lunges, parries and thrusts at thin air opponents. He seems to manage to win every match. He swears, mumbles and cheers himself on.

"Yes! Yes! Take that you bastard! And that! And that! Ha ha! More like a katana than a foil but never mind. Ah! So, you want to taste the blade of Sherlock Holmes eh? Well, have at you!" He is priceless. Leaping, stabbing and swishing through the air. Still in his dressing gown. I could watch this for ages. I look at the clock, five past six, bloody hell I'd better get ready. I stand up but he's still attacking the faceless victim who he seems determined to skewer.

"Sherlock? I'm just going to get ready to go out. Ok? We've got to be there in an hour and half." He nods whilst parrying a blow dramatically. I shake my head.

He's still fighting when I get back from the shower wearing my red stripe jumper and my tight leg trousers. I glance at the screen on my way to get another beer, two opponents this time, I didn't realise the game did that?

"It's half an hour and we've got to be there." I say to Zorro in a dressing gown as he slashes the air and gives a low bow to the TV screen. No reaction apart from a karate style yell and another violent slash. I switch the Wii off.

"Oi!" It's a word I've never heard him use and I raise my eyebrows.

"Half an hour." I tap my watch. He looks blankly at me and then dashes off into the bathroom. I chuckle and drink my beer.

Twenty minutes later he emerges. His hair is damp and curly and he's wearing a dark purple silk suit with a black shirt. I marvel at the small amount of time it takes him to look that gorgeous. He walks over to me, plucks the bottle from my hands and finishes my beer.

"Come on then, we're going to be late." He says cheekily and gets his coat. I swat his arse with my hand, he smiles over his shoulder. "Tease, John Watson, tease." He skips down the stairs, I follow him more sedately. It's not the first time he's joked about spanking and it's giving me ideas.

In the cab he tells the driver Art's address, anywhere that's just a name and a street in London has to be expensive and my guessing is not wrong as we pull up outside a bloody enormous townhouse. Before I can open the door Sherlock grabs my hand.

"I love you John." He kisses me hard in the mouth, long fingers in my hair. I can see the cab driver's eyes go wide and then study something on the dashboard intently.

"What's that for?" I ask pulling back carefully and frowning.

"The game, thinking about how I might like it." He says grinning.

"Well, it's certainly less sedentary than those things on your phone; I thought it might do you good to dash about a bit." He smiles wider.

"Mm. Yes. And let's not forget that other great exercise, the one that increases brain cell production!" Ah yes. That one. I grin back and kiss him again, damn the driver.

"Later Sherlock." He nods then frowns.

"And, you do not want a foursome?" The cab driver splutters and I push Sherlock out of the car onto the payment. Through the window I give the cabbie the fare.

"No Sherlock. I do not want a foursome. Do you?" He frowns, thinking.

"Not if you don't." He says finally, fixing me with the gimlet stare.

"Good." I nod. "I don't." He grins and takes my hand and leads me up the white stucco steps to the front door. It's deep red and twice the width of any other door I've seen. Sherlock presses the bell in the marble door way and we hear a distant clanging.

The door is opened about three minutes later by Art. He's smart as always but his hair's still wet and he looks flushed. I know that look, I've seen in before. Up close. His purple silk shirt and shiny black trousers are a mirror image of Sherlock's outfit and he laughs when he notices. He mentions some designer I've never heard of and Sherlock grins and nods. Since he knows who designers are but not about Nintendo Wii?

"Sherlock! John! Great to see you! Come in!" He steps back and waves us past him into an opulent hallway decked with pewter wallpaper which bears enormous Fleur de Lys picked out in black. It's not doubt hand painted and exclusive.

The furniture of two armchairs and an enormous dresser are also pewter and black, peacock feathers in a tall metallic jar sit on the dark wood floor and the whole room is dominated by a mirror the size of our dining room table and what I presume is a family portrait with a dark silver frame. I don't get much chance to look at the picture as Art takes us through into the lounge but the whole place is gothic chic.

The lounge is similarly sumptuous in vivid purple and black. The same, or at least similar I can't tell, wallpaper in these shades is on the walls but the wall which holds the fireplace, black marble and big enough to stand in, is painted with only the startling purple shade. The two sofas, the low coffee table and the cabinet on which the television stands are black oriental lacquered with purple flowers. It's obvious that this is Art's house; no one else would have been so bold with their decor. I'm surprised to find myself liking it. He waves us to the sofa.

"Drink? Beer? Geoff's upstairs, he'll be down in minute."

"Beer'd be great thanks. Hey Art, I like your house." He grins; obviously it's his pet project.

"Thanks. It's taken me ages to get things to how I want them. It's the old family pied a terre in the city but Mummy gave it to me for my twenty first. It was a wreck, liveable but very Victorian. I decided to keep all the old features and spruce them up with some colour and only modernise where I needed to. "

"Well, it's really nice. You've done a good job." He smiles again and vanishes for a moment, returning with two beers. I notice we are drinking from the bottle. That's what I like about Art, he's a posh bloke, but he's still a bloke.

"I heard about the hairdressers," he remarks, leaning on the side of the fireplace and sipping his beer, his eyes twinkle with amusement. "Are you considering a new career Sherlock?" Sherlock laughs and shakes his head.

"You already know about the medium right? John told you?"Hhe glances sideways at me and I look at Art who is trying to work out if he should admit this and get me in trouble or deny it all. I nod at him and he nods too.

"Yeah, John mentioned it. So? Did she 'fess up?"

"Yes she did. But I'm afraid it was quite frustrating trying to get her to realise how serious the matter is. I had to... be persuasive." Art chuckles. From the doorway behind us Lestrade speaks.

"Yes, persuasive, an interesting way to look at threatening a member of the public, in a public place with some frankly dangerous scissors. It was a good job I got the call or you'd have really been in trouble. Donovan wanted me to nick you." Sherlock raises an eyebrow sardonically.

"Well she would. She doesn't like me." He sits back and crosses his legs. Lestrade laughs and crosses the room to where Art is holding out a beer for him. I notice it's Lestrade's favourite brand. I watch them as they pass the bottle. Lestrade's hand lingers slightly on Art's fingers and they look at each other. Art smiles and licks his lips in an unconscious but flirting way. Lestrade smiles broadly. Wow.

When Lestrade turns to us it's obvious that even he has been influenced by Art's style and he's only known him about three days. His usual dark jeans are still evident but instead of the grey shirt he always seems to wear, Sherlock once asked me in a rather inappropriate moment how many grey shirts I thought Lestrade owned later explaining that if he hadn't had an answer the problem would have distracted him all night, Lestrade is wearing a slightly dark silver shirt, open at the neck to reveal a black t shirt underneath. It's a subtle change but it's one that seems to sum up what's happening with Art. He's still Lestrade but somehow changed.

He throws himself into an armchair and drinks his beer. Sherlock and Art are talking about someone they both know. It seems they went to the same school but that Art was a few years below Sherlock.

"Did you know each other at school?" I ask them. Sherlock shakes his head and Lestrade laughs heartily.

"Come on Art, you knew _about_ Sherlock at school though didn't you?" Art slaps Lestrade playfully on the leg, laughing with embarrassment.

"You promised you wouldn't mention that! That's not fair I only told you because it was an awful dare otherwise." He turns to us and pulls a face. "Truth or dare. You bastard." He says, still laughing to Lestrade who is grinning. I don't think I want to know what the dare was.

"You remember me from school?" Sherlock sits forward, hands wrapped around the green glass of the beer bottle. He looks intrigued, something he didn't know. Art nods.

"Yes, it was when you set the Chem. Lab on fire," he begins but then Lestrade's loud guffaw interrupts him. I look at Sherlock whose expression hasn't changed a bit and laugh along too. Lestrade shakes his head at me as if he's saying, 'these lot are mad.' I'm inclined to agree.

"You set fire to the school?" I ask Sherlock incredulously. He nods, serious and not getting the joke. It's as though he thinks all schoolboys try to demolish the school building.

"They should have labelled the chemicals more clearly," he complains, picking at the beer bottle label. "If it had clearly said sulphuric acid then none of the subsequent 'inferno' would have happened." He sounds sulky and I can suddenly imagine the gangly teenager he must have been. It makes me laugh harder.

"Well, anyway when you got dragged up in assembly and the Head was explaining what you'd done, ranting and raving about the cost, the reputation of the school..."

"Daddy bought them a new lab and I think it was Mycroft who suggested they told the other parents that the fire had been caused by the faulty fan in the gas cupboard which _could_ have burnt the whole things down anyway..." By this time Lestrade and I are nearly crying with laughter. I register in my mirth that Mycroft was clearly a man from the Ministry even when an older teenager.

"Yes well, anyway. The Head's got you on the stage and he's going on and on and on and you're there looking at your feet and we have no idea who you are. I'm at the front with the younger boys and you just seemed a bit like a..."

"I think you used the word 'god' earlier." Says Lestrade helpfully, Art glares and then shakes his head ruefully smiling.

"A bit like a hero, I think I said thanks, Geoff. And the Head is shouting and he says 'put your bloody head up boy and look the school in the face. These boys are going to be without chemistry for months until we get this sorted.' And you looked up at us all and there was this look of boredom and defiance in your eyes and you said..."

"Sorry I set fire to your Chem. Lab chaps, anyone who wants to return the favour can set fire to the Head's office." Sherlock says it for him. I goggle at him, Sherlock the anarchist hero? Who'd have thought it? Lestrade's laughter has subsided to a giggle but he's still grinning.

"Did you get expelled?" I ask Sherlock, I have to admit I'm a little in awe of him right now. I know he doesn't care for authority but, bloody hell. He shakes his head, as does Art.

"No, Daddy smoothed it over. Bloody annoying too because I really thought they'd do it that time..." He looks like he's just admitted something.

"That time? You mean you did more things, worse than setting fire to the school?" He purses his lips and drinks his beer and says nothing. It seems we might have to play our own truth or dare game if I'm going to find out any more.

"And that's how Art remembers you Sherlock, all heroic and... godlike." Lestrade giggles again and I laugh too, more at Art's utterly outraged face.

"You monster! I'll make you pay for that!" He mock menaces Lestrade.

"Promises, promises." Lestrade laughs and drinks his beer.

"Yes. Promises." Art looks at Lestrade and winks; Lestrade splutters his mouthful of beer. It must be an in joke. Right, I think we'd better go and eat." Art leads the way out of the lounge and down the hall to the dining room. It's furnished in the same extravagant way but this time the colour scheme is deep pink and bronze.

"What are we having?" I ask him as we walk into the room, the kitchen is through a wide arch and I can smell spices cooking. I had expected Art to buy food in; it's what these people seem to do.

"Curry. I've made us Tandoori chicken; you do like curry don't you? Geoff said you did." He frowns.

"Love it. You cooked it yourself?" Lestrade hands me another beer from the large Swedish fridge, he seems very at home here.

"Art's mum is that celebrity chef John, you know Cyn Douglas?" I look at Art in surprise who shrugs and waves us to the table. I sit opposite Sherlock.

"Really? Bloody hell Art, I didn't know that." He sets down a steaming dish of chicken on the table and follows it up with a dish of rice, some naan bread that looks homemade, poppadoms and pickles. It smells and looks brilliant.

"Well, Daddy was a bit annoyed with her for going on television, it was part of the reason they split up really, so we don't tend to bring it up." He gestures for us to tuck in. I need no second urging, I realise it's been hours since my subway sandwich on Oxford St.

**Se, here I am up at stupid o clock with the return of the cold. Damn. Anyway, thought I'd finish this when the original plan was to do it tomorrow night. I might write a bit more now and then try to get that finished tomorrow. **

**Are you enjoying the fourso...er dinner? Is Art's house how you imagined? Let me know because it's always nice to have some feedback.**

**The Baker St Irregulars!i am honoured and thrilled to have you in my inbox, I really feel like we've got community going here. PrincessNala and Peachsilk ,Darmed (fab to hear the treatment seems to be working, we're thinking about you) Clubba Bear, Tasty- Kate (hope you're in Europe safe and sound) ,2cajuman2, Tanya Zsa Zsa (Thanks for the wii!) , Munchiees!, Aelfric's cat, Nellyington, mrs winny, Despairandcupcakechild!, Mouserjb4 ,Tillif and Harpyquinand Jazzysatindoll (she says if we have any requests for her to draw scenes from these fics we should tell her.) thegeekyprincess and Flabagash! And the new irregulars, let me know if you feel you need a name check. I really would not be writing this without you all.**

**Love you OHOB and Reggie Cx**


	15. Dungeon and dessert

Art's Tandoori chicken is bloody delicious. I think I might have seen the recipe on the TV when his mum's show was on last winter but it tastes even better than it looks. It's turning out that Art has hidden depths, which is odd for someone who cultivates an exterior which is so shallow you couldn't paddle in it.

We're all eating and talking and laughing. I'm watching Lestrade and Art because it makes me feel all warm inside to see how well they seem to get on. Art even mentions something about a holiday they're going to take together. There is no acknowledgement of the fact they have only known each other for three days, it clearly doesn't seem significant to them. There's something about how they are which reminds me of mine and Sherlock's relationship and it's good to feel that there are people who are beginning to understand how I feel right now.

"So, did you recognise Sherlock when you met him later? Because I remember you saying you met him when you were clubbing and he was..." I look at Sherlock and his eyebrows are raised.

"Cruising?" suggests Lestrade earning a glare from those laser blue eyes.

"Like a shark?" Giggles Art.

"Experimenting." I finish as Art passes me the plate with the naan bread. He nods and smiles.

"Well, not at first, but I did fancy him like mad, but then I asked about and well, there's only going to be one person called Sherlock isn't there?" I grin; Sherlock smirks as he takes another mouthful of curry. For a second I am transfixed by the movement of his lips as he chews. He swallows and speaks.

"You had a crush on me? At school?" He shakes his head, unable to comprehend this new revelation. It's one of the great things about him, he can be so confident, actually bloody arrogant sometimes, but then in the next breath he can be as insecure as the rest of us. "Wish I'd known, I thought I was such a hermit, no friends." It breaks my heart to imagine the teenage Sherlock, eating his lunch on his own.

"So, are you saying you would have done then? If he'd told you?" Sherlock frowns and I can see him about to ask 'would have done what?' when he realises that Lestrade means would he have _done_ Art. He twists his mouth.

"I wasn't doing anything, or anyone. Well, myself obviously, I _was_ a teenage boy but I hadn't even considered other people. I don't know. I might have done." He waggles an eyebrow. Lestrade nudges Art.

"See? Missed your chance, now you're stuck with me." He pulls a face. Art chuckles.

"He'd have been bored with me in seconds, I was twelve! And anyway, I'm glad I saved myself for you!" Lestrade guffaws.

"Saved yourself for me! How thoughtful, I am honoured." He kisses Art's hand and Art blushes.

"Did he just blush?" I ask the table, pointing at Art. "Mr 'no shame' Douglas? Wow." Art shakes his head and is still a little flushed.

Art teases Lestrade about RN and Lestrade teases Art about being posh.

"So, when's your annual review with RN?" Art asks archly. "Because I can think of some targets for you." Lestrade splutters and shakes his head.

"No. No way are you talking to the Super. I know he's fine with all of this but, well, no bloody way Art Douglas." Art laughs and grins at me.

"RN knows? How was he?" Art shrugs.

"Oh, he was fine. Said he thought that he wouldn't be able to keep me interested for long. Was surprised that it was Geoff though." Lestrade makes a snorting noise.

"I know! Surprised, why? Am I not allowed to have relationships?" He sounds outraged.

"Well, of course you are but I think he just meant that he was surprised that..."

"You go for young men who tend to dress in silver bondage gear?" I offer raising an eyebrow.

"Or that you'd get off with someone who had a sex dungeon installed in their house where their father's office used to be?" Suggests Sherlock nonchalantly. I put my hand over my face to prevent me spitting my drink at him as I laugh; he passes me a napkin without comment.

"A sex dungeon?" I can barely get the words out, beer is burning the inside of my nose and my eyes are streaming. Art nods like it's perfectly normal to have a sex dungeon. I look at Lestrade who is grinning. Oh my god. "Really? A dungeon? Can I see it?" I can feel Sherlock looking at me intently. I blush.

"Yeah course, Geoff can show you while we wait for dessert to be ready if you like?" I look at Lestrade who is smiling broadly.

"Ok." I manage feebly. Lestrade sees my plight and changes the subject.

"Now which fork do I use now Art? You know, some of us weren't taught this by our Nanny." Lestrade is chuckling at Art's indignant expression.

"Use any bloody fork you like!" he exclaims, "don't start on about Nanny again, she was a lovely woman." Lestrade laughs openly and takes Art's fork, just to make a point.

"Oh you're so good to us poor folk," he says in a broad Northern accent, tugging an imaginary forelock. Then he looks at me and winks. "How's that Facebook page going John?" Sherlock and Art frown.

"Good. We're the only two members at the moment but I'm sure there must be more out there with our..."

"Affliction?" Lestrade grins.

"Condition, I was going to say." We both laugh.

"Has anyone heard from Laura and Rose? Or Clara?" Lestrade asks when we stop laughing. I shake my head. "Art spoke to Laura yesterday didn't you?" Art nods as he clears up the plates. I stand to help him but he waves me down.

"You. Help with dishes." He points to Lestrade who grins.

"Yes sir!" Barks Lestrade, snapping to attention. Art giggles. Lestrade relaxes and pokes Art in the ribs; Art squeals and nearly drops the plates. "Make sure you take full opportunity to boss me around now Arthur, because it won't be happening later." The use of his full name, the veiled play threat leaves sexual tension so thick in the air that I sit with my mouth wide open. I look at Sherlock, he is looking right back at me, pupils wide and black.

They go into the kitchen where there is more squealing and then silence. Sherlock grabs my hand across the table and his fingertips massage my palm. I'm not sure how this works but it's turning me on. He lowers his mouth and sucks my finger between his lips. He hasn't said a word but those dark eyes are on me, boring into me, burning me. I gasp in my breath and he pulls back, licking along the length of my finger and flicking his tongue on the sensitive skin where it joins my hand. Bloody hell.

"What was all that about?" I am panting, he grins.

"You know, if we ask him, Art would let us stay here tonight." He raises an eyebrow and smirks.

"Why would we want to...oh." The dungeon. Surely he's not suggesting. He bloody well is, the demented, frighteningly sexy, madman that is Sherlock Holmes. I shake my head and he frowns.

"I don't know. I don't mean no, I just mean I think I'll have to think about it. Is that ok?" he nods and smiles.

Lestrade and Art come back in, they look a little flushed and Art's shirt is untucked at the back. They're laughing.

"So, want to see the dungeon John?" Lestrade offers me his arm like a Victorian gentleman.

"Love to." I grin and link my arm though his.

This house is massive." I marvel as we take the stairs and I realise the staircase opens up to four floors of Georgian extravagance. Lestrade smirks.

"I keep telling Art he needs to lay out small trays of Kendal Mint Cake for intrepid explorers to replenish their energy." He giggles.

We pass the bathroom, or one of them. Lestrade pushes open the door. Black and silver, slanted floor with a massive shower in the corner.

"Really it's a wetroom not a bathroom," Lestrade smirks. "He keeps correcting me. The real bathroom's on the next floor but two of the guest rooms are ensuite and there's toilet and shower downstairs too." He rolls his eyes and we go up another floor.

"The only things up here are Art's bedroom, another bathroom, a study and the dungeon." He turns to me on the stairs. "There's no reason to be up here if you're not invited." He grins.

"Dungeon on the first floor? Very novel." I laugh and Lestrade nods.

I don't see Art's room but Lestrade opens the door to a room about the size of our lounge back at 221b. I don't know what I expected but it's not this.

The decor is the same motif as through the house, fleur de Lys but this time in deep crimson and black. All the furniture is black too. And when I say furniture I really mean expensive bondage equipment, although there is a chaise longue.

There is a bench like the one I saw Lola and Rose use at Miss Brandon's party. There's a low double cot bed and a chair which is probably antique and consists of fancy carved wood, stained black. Someone's attached cuffs to the legs. A large black hammock style affair hangs from the ceiling of one corner of the room and a thing like a children's swing but with a black rubber sling instead of the seat is in another corner. Two low tables, like the sort of thing you see at Japanese tea parties, are laid out with various instruments. I recognise about a third of them. Nipple clamps, dildos, harnesses and gags and hand cuffs. The others and their uses are a mystery. I look at Lestrade he raises his eyebrows at me.

"We've not been in here yet; Art says he's working me up to it. I just want to give it a go." He grins as, unconsciously, I nod at him. I smile too.

"Wow. This is impressive, well stocked." He nods again. I walk to the sling and push it carefully, it swings noiselessly. "I'm intrigued with this." I say, really not realising what I just admitted to. Lestrade comes over.

"Ever been in one?" I shake my head.

"Not sure it's me I want in it." I grin at him and he nods.

"Want a go?" I look at him, trying to ascertain what he's suggesting. "Just to see how you put someone in it!" He laughs, holding up his hands in mock horror. I nod.

"Go on then." I hold the sling bit steady and he clambers in. It's not very graceful and I have to hold the leather straps tightly so it doesn't swing about and drop him on the floor. Eventually, amid much giggling and snorting, he's in. The sling swings about. I walk around the back, Lestrade's arse in his nice jeans is hanging through the mesh and it's obvious it leaves him vulnerable to whatever his partner has in store for him.

"Well, this seems straightforward enough." He says, looking back at me as the sling swings him forward. I grab the straps and pull him back.

"It's amazing, the angle's just right for..." I trail off realising what I was about to say, but it's true. Whoever designed this piece of equipment has made it adjustable. Sherlock's height would be no longer a problem for the angles of my body. Lestrade turns, the thing spins a little and I put out my hands to steady him. We laugh again.

"You're right, Art and I have less of a variation in our heights but I've wondered about the angles." Lestrade and I are talking about the logistics of anal sex like it's fly fishing. I take a moment to register my surprise and then nod, he's right.

"Well, whoever designed this knew their stuff." I give him a push and he swings forward.

"Wonder if I can get on it face down?" He asks, frowning. I have to admit I was just wondering that. He gets off and we play with the straps and buckles.

"I hope this wasn't set up in a particular way, Art will kill us." I say as Lestrade lowers the harness.

"It's ok, I remember which hole the buckles were on." He says concentrating on tightening one strap. "Grab these bits John." I take hold of the leather and he lies down on the sling. Again, perfect angle. Even from where I am standing it's obvious that this thing leaves his body eminently available. He swings forward and nearly butts me in the crotch. I step back laughing. He is giggling and swinging about, wobbling as his mirth makes him more unstable.

"I guess it's not for laughing then." He snorts.

"No," I say walking to a rack and grabbing a riding crop with a heart shaped end. "No laughing in my dungeon!" I swat his arse in a half hearted way and he twitches and laughs harder. We are a giggling wreck, I am pretending to spank him with the crop, he is wriggling in a poor attempt to escape my onslaught.

"Well, here's a scene I only imagined in my wildest fantasies." It's Art with Sherlock behind him. Art is grinning and Sherlock has a quiet smirk on his face. Lestrade and I start like naughty children dressing up in parents' clothes. Lestrade tries to get up off the sling but manages to get his ankle caught in the webbing and lands on his arse. He winces but is still wheezing with laughter.

"We were just seeing how this thing worked." I explain, realising that it sounds lame even as the words leave my lips.

"And the riding crop?" It's Sherlock who says this, of course it is, his voice like melted chocolate. Christ. I can feel myself blush.

"Just, erm messing about really." I say, putting it back carefully and adjusting it so it's at the same angle as the other ones. He smiles a slow, predatory smile. I gulp.

"So, do you like it? Laura helped me set it up; she's considering doing it as a sideline business. I think she'd be great don't you?" Lestrade gets up from the floor nodding. He crosses to Art and Art pulls him close. They kiss and I hear Lestrade whimper slightly as Art folds his fingers in his hair and pulls him to his mouth. I look away; Sherlock is still looking at me.

"Is dessert ready?" I squeak. Art frees Lestrade and nods to me.

"Yep, downstairs everyone." He adds in a Boy Scout Leader voice and then laughs. "Let's not leave anyone behind up here!" Sherlock chuckles and takes my hand. He doesn't let go until we're back in the dining room, his thumb draws lazy circles on my palm all the way down. It makes me feel very warm.

Dessert is treacle pudding and custard, cooked to perfection. Just sweet enough and just crunchy enough, Art's obviously a great cook. For a few moments we're all occupied eating. Apart from mummers of appreciation and the sound of us licking our spoons the room is silent. Sherlock pushes his plate away first, he does everything quicker than all of us.

"That was marvellous." He sighs, folding his hands over his stomach. "Thanks Art." I nod in agreement as I finish my last mouthful.

"You're very welcome. I don't get chance to cook for people very often. Mummy's got this fabulous puffer fish dish I want to try so maybe you could come over and we can do that sometime?" Sherlock nods.

"And maybe we could stay over that time?" He looks at Art who seems to pick up on an unspoken cue.

"Of course, anytime. Make yourself at home." He winks at me. "Shall we go back to the lounge and have liqueur? I'll worry about tidying up later," he looks at Lestrade, "well, maybe tomorrow." They laugh.

The lights are low and the fire is roaring and the liqueur is making me feel pleasantly tipsy but not too drunk. Sherlock and Lestrade are arguing about a case which has been confusing them and Art is talking to me about the army. He's very tactful, considerate, but the conversation gets a bit uncomfortable and I don't want to be dwelling on that part of my past when I'm enjoying myself.

"I'm just going to the bathroom." I excuse myself and go out into the hall. It's cooler out here and the colder air clears my head a little. I go to the bathroom, come out and lean against the wall, just getting some space. I have to be honest and I'm still thinking about the dungeon and the possibilities of the sling and I don't notice Sherlock until his hands are all over me.

"What?" But my words are muffled by his mouth on mine. His tongue explores my lips, licking the corner where they join together. I moan and feel that fire zipping down my body. My knees turn to jelly.

He cradles my head in his big hand and slips the other down, expertly past my waistband and into my trousers. I moan and he chuckles. He pulls back, fingers light over my now hard cock, teasing, fluttering.

"I can't get that picture of you with the riding crop out of my head John." He breathes and I feel myself starting to fall apart. The tantalising fingers and the image of what he is suggesting thrill through me. "I think we should get my crop out sometime. What do you think?" He looks at me with the stare, the one where his eyes take up my entire field of vision and it's like being caught under a microscope. His fingers press against me more firmly and I actually stumble. His hand on my arse catches me, but doesn't really help with my arousal levels.

"Want to go home now." He says in a low voice like a really sexually inappropriate toddler. I nod, I can do little else. He steps back from me and I clutch the wall. I try to remember how to breathe. He watches me intently while I calm down. I adjust myself in my trousers, pulling down my jumper to avoid total embarrassment.

"Not sure about the crop right now." I pant. He nods.

"Let's just think about it ok?" The perfect eyebrows raise. I nod back.

Art and Lestrade are surprisingly ok about us rushing off; to be honest I think they have their own plans for the evening from the way Lestrade lets go of Art when we walk back in. They escort us to the door.

"That was a great evening! We have to do this again!" Art says kissing me on the cheek. "We're going away for a weekend soon but when we get back?" Sherlock and I both nod.

"Have fun, where are you going?" I ask as the cab pulls in to the kerb.

"Edinburgh." Art says his arm about Lestrade. "Geoff's never been and it's where the Douglases are from originally, well, Scotland anyway."

"Sounds good. Have fun!" I say as I get into the cab after Sherlock.

The car pulls away from the kerb and he pulls me over the seat to him. He presses his mouth to mine, his breathing is ragged and he moans as his hot lips brush against mine. His hands are in my hair, under my jumper and driving me mad. The cabby's eyes glance in the mirror and he smirks.

By the time we are at the square near 221b I am so near to coming that I am not even aware where I am. He hasn't, won't, touch my cock and it's killing me. His hands skim near and away. They pinch and twist my nipples, push me nearer and nearer to the edge. I can barely breathe, think, as they sweep over my thighs, sliding between and gripping my muscles.

I grab his shirt for dear life. I try to move my hands down his body but I can't focus, the white hot thrill of lust is searing away everything else. I have to have him, I want him.

"Sherlock," I whisper like a drowning man. "I want to be inside you." He nods and brushes my tortured erection lightly. I groan, I can't do anything else. The cab swerves to the pavement. I stumble out, knees knocking together I am shaking so much. I stagger to the door and lean against the cool stone of the doorway, unable to find my keys if I wanted to. I hear the cabbie speaking.

"That's all right doll; we've all been there eh? Got you home as fast as I could. Give him one for me! Or take one yourself eh? Either way, enjoy yourselves boys." The tone of his voice and his leering wink sober me up slightly. A gay cabbie, we had to meet one eventually.

Something about the night air gives me some presence of mind. I push Sherlock up the stairs in front of me. We barrel through the door and make it to the sofa. I am lying on top of him and I grind myself into him.

He moans, head lolls back exposing that long white throat. I press my mouth to it and feel him shudder beneath me, feel him swallow and the blood pounding under my lips.

I slow down, rolling my fingers down his sides holding his hips as I buck against him, he thrusts up to me. I kneel back and undo his trousers, pull them down. He lifts his leg and pushes them the rest of the way off with his long toes. His naked legs and hard cock are golden in the street light. I drink the sight of him in. Still kneeling back I stroke him, marvelling at the heat from his body, the satin smoothness of his taut skin. He writhes and throws an arm behind his head, hips moving trying to gain friction.

"Where's the lube? I want to fuck you Sherlock." I say seriously, his eyes roll back and he moans again. When he looks back at me it's like his whole eyes are black pupils.

"Bedroom." He whispers hoarsely. "Butter in the kitchen." This stops me for a moment but there is something so urgent, so desperate about this request that it just increases the desire I am feeling. I stand up from the sofa and get the butter dish. He watches me with heavily lidded eyes while I take off all my clothes, my cock glistens, hard in the yellow light. He licks his lips.

I nudge his legs apart and he sighs. I slick my hand with butter, it starts to melt and run between my fingers as I grab it and I have to use both hands to prevent it sliding away. I rub it into my erection, the sensation is consuming, he is watching me and his breathing is shallow.

Next I rub it over his cock and down his balls until I press against his opening with a tormenting finger. He moans and writhes and opens himself wider, one leg thrown over the back of the sofa. He trembles as I slip myself inside him and begin to push.

I steady myself with my hands on his chest, knees slightly off the cushions as I slide inside him. I fuck him slowly and he loves it. His body jumps and he says my name.

"Oh god John, that feels so good. You feel so amazing." I nod because I know what he means but I can't speak. I slide my slick hand down his cock and back up, the thumb swirl and he bucks beneath me, driving me further into his body. It feels amazing, tight like I'll never fit.

I watch him moving with me and I have an idea. I slip back, coming out of him entirely. He groans and his body jerks forward.

"Turn over." He doesn't say anything just flips his leg over me and turns, slightly on his knees so the angle is right. I can see how open he is for me and I waste no time filling him. He moans and pushes back against me. His compliance, his willingness to give himself to me, are thrilling down my body. I thrust against him hard and unforgiving. It's how he likes it, he yelps and pants, he begs.

"Oh god, John, touch me, please." I reach down and stroke his cock. He is shuddering, close to his orgasm and I decide to test my new theory. I can feel the pressure building in my crotch, drowning out all conscious thought, before it can take hold entirely I bring back my free hand and slap him hard on the buttocks. His movements become erratic, out of contro,l so I do it again, this time back handed.

"!" I slap him hard and somehow this gesture communicates itself to my cock and I come hard inside him. I feel him coming in my hand, his muscles clench to an almost unbearable constriction. I literally see stars and I feel like my life force drains out of me in four long spurts as I come. I hear a voice shouting his name and vaguely I know it is mine.

He falls forward and I slide out of him, he whimpers against the cushions and I stroke his back, my hands shaking. He turns his head slightly towards me.

"Mmm." He sighs grinning. Then his face loses the soft focus expression and becomes sharp, aquiline. "There's a message on the answer phone." He says pointing a shaky hand to the green light which is blinking on the telephone.

**I think I've overdone the sex here so help me out. Thanks for the comments about the Wii but it wasn't my idea! It was Tanya Zsa Zsa! The fencing game was mine though. What did you think of Art's dungeon?**

**As always I must thank the clever and insightful gang who are The Baker St Irregulars! You make my life so much more fun! PrincessNala and Peachsilk (Kendal Mint Cake is for you as are the slaps) Darmed (we're thinking about you, get some rest, don't shoot any walls.) Clubba Bear, Tasty- Kate (how's Italy?) ,2cajuman2, Tanya Zsa Zsa (creator of sherlock's Wii and mega reviewer of past fics), Munchiees!, Aelfric's cat (book buddy), mrs winny, Despairandcupcakechild!, Mouserjb4 ,Tillif and Harpyquin and Jazzysatindoll (are we REALLY going to suggest she draws the slap? :D ),thegeekyprincess and Flabagash! You guys are truely wonderful, I don't deserve you.**

**Love you OHOB and Reggie Cx**


	16. Running

"Hi boys! Laura here! Just letting you know that we didn't kidnap Clara but we did have a lovely time! Ring me and I might tell all! Hope you're having fun and that's why you're not answering the phone!" Beeeeeep.

"Hi John, Sherlock, it's Mike here. Just wanted to let you know that they let me out this afternoon! Yep, they reckon I am safe to go home thanks to the amazing upswing of my progress after your visit. So, thank guys. I'll never be able to thank you enough. And I wondered if John fancied going for a run sometime soon? Anyway, thanks and hopefully I'll see you soon." Beeeeeep.

"Sherlock? John? Mycroft. Jamie wants to talk. Not to me. To you. John preferably but Sherlock will do. I'm bringing him round to the flat tomorrow. Ring me back when you get this. Thank you for the dressing gown picture. Delightful. Have you heard from Daddy?" Beeeeeeeep.

"Sherlock? Daddy here, just wondering when we can get together. Will be in London sometime next week so call me, you still have the new phone? Mycroft says you have a delightful new flatmate, bring him along. Bye."

We look at each other as the messages play out. Sherlock's expressions go like this; message one, Sherlock grins widely, message two, Sherlock nods and smiles, message three, Sherlock scowls like a teenager and then rolls his eyes, message four, Sherlock looks blank.

"I'm not speaking to Jamie." I say flatly. Sherlock sighs and rubs his fingers in his hair. "You can't expect me to, and neither can Mycroft. Who does he think he is? Just summoning me. He can bugger off." I sit down, arms folded. I realise I am acting like a child but I don't like being forced into situations.

"Well, you go out and see Michael then, go running or whatever it is you squaddies do together. I will talk to Jamie. Someone's got to tell him what we've found out."

"Well it's not going to be me." I humph, just to make sure he knows how cross I am.

"Yes, I think I got that message John. Do you want to phone Michael now?"

"No Sherlock, it's after midnight," he frowns.

"Not a good time to call?" I shake my head. Sometimes he's ridiculous.

"No, no one's awake."

"We are." He states, sitting down in the chair opposite.

"Well, yes we are but..." I run out of argument, he smiles smugly. I sigh. "I'll text him."

I send a quick text to Michael, I bloody hope he's free tomorrow afternoon. I put the phone down on the table and look at Sherlock.

"I'm starving. Toast?" I ask, he nods, then knits his eyebrows together. "What?"

"We haven't got any butter." I laugh.

Michael texts back while I'm in the shower the next morning and Sherlock comes to tell me. It's like he cannot bear to wait for anything and he thinks everyone else is just as impatient. He comes in and holds the phone to the shower screen. All I can see is steam and water.

"What? What's that?" I ask him as I rub soap down my legs. I look up and he is watching me intently, like cat with a mouse. I'm naked, he's dressed and it's unnerving. "What?" I say again, unnecessarily, just because he's freaking me out.

"Nothing. Just... looking. Ah!" He follows my exasperated gaze to the phone in his hand as though he's surprised to see it there. "Phone, yes, actually, you have a text!" He says shaking his head like he's ridding his brain of a thought, I'm not sure I want to know.

"Well, read it out to me." I say, gesturing for the towel. This is a bit like role reversal. He looks startled and then passes me the towel meekly. Then he looks at the phone.

"I think it's army code." He says frowning. "It says 'hiya M eight'." He looks at me. "Is there an M8? Is it a motorway John? Are you running on a motorway?" He cocks his head.

"Mate." I say slowly. "It's short for 'mate' in texting. The M8 is a motorway in Scotland. We're not running to Scotland Sherlock." I towel my hair and listen to him decipher the rest of the message.

"Ah! Right then. 'All ok for run this aft', is that afternoon?" I look up from the towel, he is frowning. I nod, he carries on. "Ok, then it says 'c...u...'," he pauses. "Is he writing something inappropriate here John?" I snatch the phone and see a momentary glimmer of triumph and mischief in his eyes.

"You know damned well he's just writing 'see you at 2', Sherlock!" he giggles.

"Oh yes, of course. Sorry. Have you finished in the shower now?"

"Yes, why? Do you want one?" He's fully dressed. He shakes his head looks me over again.

"Unless you want me to...?" He stops and waggles his eyebrows.

"No Sherlock, I just _had_ a shower." He frowns but nods. His expression brightens.

"When you've been running you'll need another. Can I get in that one?" I nod.

"Ok, yes you can. Now, can I get to the sink to brush my teeth please?" He grins and wriggles slightly back so that I have to squeeze past him. "This bathroom's tiny." I complain.

"I think it's bijou." He says grinning.

I'm meeting Michael in Regents Park; it's only about ten minutes away so I plan to walk there and back. This means I don't have to carry anything so I've got my jogging bottoms and a t shirt on. My zip up jacket is over my arm until I get out of the flat. Sherlock's fascinated with the zip and I'll never get past him if I put it on now.

As it is he grabs me as I'm leaving and presses me against the doorframe. He kisses me passionately.

"Don't forget our shower." He says in a low voice. "Run fast." He grins. I swallow.

"When's Mycroft bringing Jamie?" He looks at his watch, then at mine. I'm not sure why he needs to check.

"Ten minutes, you'd better go." I kiss him briefly and jog down the stairs.

"There's something very attractive about you exercising!" He shouts after me, still leaning in the doorway. I wave a hand without looking back and hit the pavement.

I think all the way to the park. What does Jamie want? What will be his reaction when Sherlock tells him what we know? Ok, most of what I think is about Jamie, the ghost, Freddy but somewhere in my head is what Sherlock said about the riding crop at Art's house.

"I can't get that picture of you with the riding crop out of my head John." My brain replays the words in his voice, seductive, sultry. I can feel my heartbeat quicken. Does that mean he wants me to wield the crop? I've read enough 'SM101' now to know that this is not something you just try the first time around. I'd have to practise on something. Do I want to use one or am I just doing this because he wants me to? Do I want him to use it on me?

I can imagine the sting, the sharp sort of pain which makes you hiss your breath. Is that sexy? Can it be a turn on? Those slaps I gave Sherlock had some sort of effect on him but was it the pain? And am I into that? For myself? The short answer is, I just don't know. I shake my head, earning a strange look from a woman with a buggy as I frown and grimace to myself. I can't believe I'm considering this.

Luckily I don't get any more chance to think because now I'm at the park and Michael's doing stretches against a bench. He looks up and smiles warmly, hugs me fiercely.

"Hey John! This is brilliant eh? Out in the fresh air! Bit of exercise! Good company. Just what I need!"

He looks healthier, more real than he did when I saw him a few days ago. It's obvious that the confirmation that he wasn't mad has had a massive impact on him.

"Hi Mike. Bloody good to see you." I start to stretch, feeling my bad leg twinge a little at the thought of the exercise to come. I remind it that it is not really a bad leg. You're psychosomatic, I tell it firmly. "Bet Katie and the kids are glad to have you back at home eh?" he smiles a big smile. Mike has the nicest family I've ever met. His wife is a wonderful, kind woman and his two daughters, six and three are gorgeous and a hysterical double act.

"Yeah, it's great. We're taking the girls to the zoo tomorrow. God, I missed them." He nods to himself and then seems to wake up, again. "So shall we just run then? Do you have a circuit?"

"Yeah, I usually run all the way round to the cafe!" I laugh and he grins and slaps me on the back.

"Let's do that then!" We set off at a gentle pace.

For a moment or two we jog along adjusting to each other's speed and stride. When we have settled into something we are both happy with Mike starts a conversation.

"So, John, how's it going with Sherlock?" He glances sideways.

"Good. It's good." I nod, unsure what to say.

"Look, tell me to sod off if you like but..."

"Go on, ask." I grin.

"Well, how did you end up...? I mean, how did you realise you fancied blokes? You've never..."

"No, I haven't have I? And it's not blokes Mike, it's Sherlock. God," I blow out air and run a few more paces while I gather my thoughts. "Well, it was sort of an accident." He laughs and I smile. "I know, sounds mad right? But it was."

"You tripped up and landed arse down on his dick?" Mike is chuckling, I look at him seriously and he stops, his face falls and I can see him worrying that I'm mortally offended. Then I laugh and he punches me on the arm. "Bastard, Watson, bastard." I smile.

"Not really that sort of accident but, well I sort of overheard something I shouldn't have and it made me realise." He thinks for a minute and does a slow nod.

"Ok, I get that. What's the sex like?" I start to laugh and he grabs my arm." Come on, you know I was going to ask that right? You'd ask me if it was the other way around." It's true; I would ask Mike, we've always got on.

"It's..." I begin and then stop. What do I say here? It's fucking amazing and I can't get enough of him? "It's good. Really good." He makes a noise of appreciation.

"Wow. Really good eh? And which one of you... erm... come on, you know what I'm asking!"

"Nosy fucker aren't you?" I grin. He nods and makes a gesture like 'go on...' "Well we haven't got a rule about that. It's not like with a woman Mike, no one tells you what to do, who should do what. So, we just do whatever seems like a good idea at the time." Good explanation Watson, I think to myself.

We're quiet for a bit longer and I can see that Mike is thinking.

"So, you've actually had his... I mean, you've let him...?" I roll my eyes.

"Are we twelve? Yes, of course I let him! Are you telling me that you're not even slightly intrigued to know how that would feel?"

"No." He's grinning.

"Liar."

"No, I'm not lying. I'm not even slightly intrigued. Because I know. Katie bought a strap on when we'd been together for about six months, said she'd always wanted to try it." I goggle at him. Katie? Petite, blonde, sweet Katie? Wow. What do you say to that?

"Is she... is she any good?" Oh smooth John, really smooth. He nods and grins. We laugh together. "Well, bloody hell." I say finally. We jog along.

"Yep. Here we are, Royal Fusiliers getting fucked up the arse by a five foot three blonde and public school boy!" He laughs.

"And loving every minute of it!" I add chuckling. He nods.

"The regiment would be proud!" He grins and I have to stop running because I can't catch my breath.

We walk along, still sniggering and getting some very odd looks from young, hardcore runners. One of them, a young twenty something city boy with a fancy mp3 player and chiselled cheekbones, runs past us and tuts loudly.

"Nice arse!" shouts Mike. The runner turns and Mike points to me, as if I made the comment. I gasp and hit him on the arm. The runner tuts again and jogs away, significantly faster than before. Mike clutches his stomach and wheezes. I shake my head.

We walk now to the cafe, we've no breath for running and I need a drink. I'd forgotten how much fun Mike is. It's a shame he and Kate weren't about for Sherlock's birthday. Maybe I should throw another one and invite them?

"What're you having?" He asks me at the counter.

"Bottle of water?" I ask feeling a bit self conscious. What I really want is a cup of tea but I don't want him calling me granddad for the next six months.

"I'm having a cup of tea. Just water?"

"Go on, I'll have a cup of tea too then." He grins.

"Cake?"

"Are you having one?" he nods.

"Yeah, cake then." He shakes his head and laughs.

I find us a table and he comes over with two enormous slices of Victoria sponge and two teapots.

"The afternoon snack of champions." He says, grinning, as he puts it down on the table.

"Sponsors of the 2012 Olympics." I say and he chuckles. We eat the cake and look around the cafe. Parents with toddlers try desperately not to feed them sugary evil, old ladies argue about who is going to pay and some foreign tourists try to work their English currency out. I wonder if Sherlock has finished with Jamie.

"Have you heard from Jamie? Is he still at your flat?" Mike asks me as though he can read minds. I shake my head and tell him the potted version of the story.

"A brother? Are you sure? Bloody hell. And Jamie? Where's he staying then?"

"With a friend of ours, he's at 221b now though, Sherlock's talking to him." I don't mention that I can't speak to him. Mike frowns, thinking.

"Can I come back with you? See him? It might help if I can talk to him?" I sigh, I really don't want to see Jamie but if it helps Mike then, well, he's a good friend. I nod reluctantly. "Thanks John, it's been a while since we've all been together eh?" I know that both of us are thinking about Freddy's funeral but neither of us say it.

Cake and tea finished, we walk back to Baker St. Mike tells me about his daughters' latest exploits. There's a fantastic story about his eldest and her teacher's explanation of the solar system, I think Sherlock would like Mike's kids; they seem to share a similar outlook on the universe.

"So then Beth says, 'well it's not accurate anyway because everyone knows that the orbit isn't round, it's elliptical!' Honestly John, she's six. I'm doomed when she starts being a teenager!" I laugh and point across the road.

"That's our flat. I hope Jamie's still there." And I hope Sherlock's not in the shower waiting, I add to myself as I realise I haven't texted him to tell him I'm bringing Mike back, I haven't got my phone.

The downstairs door is open and we climb the stairs and I knock on the door of the flat. Nothing. Oh god, he's in the shower, on the sofa nude, lurking, waiting for me to come back. Then there are footsteps and Jamie opens the door.

Something is wrong. Jamie's face is puffy, eyes red rimmed. I push past him and the flat is empty.

"What's happened? Where is he? What've you done?" This last sentence comes from my mouth as a snarl as I pin Jamie to the door. His face is white, scared. Mike grabs my arm, I am shouting. "If you've fucking touched him... I swear I'm going to..."

"John, John! For fuck's sake put him down! He's not done anything! Look at him!" Mike's strength prises my fingers from Jamie's arm and forces me back. I strain to catch my breath, the bloody hammering in my ears, my body shaking with rage and fear. Mike turns me, hands on my shoulders, steadying.

"Look at him! He's fucking terrified. What happened Jamie?" Jamie starts to cry.

"He told me... about Freddy's brother. Then we were interrupted. The doorbell rang, Sherlock answered it. I was watching from the top of the stairs and it was... oh god Mike. It was Freddy."

"Freddy's brother." Mike says steadily. "It's not Freddy, Jamie. It's not." I pace back and forward.

"Where's Sherlock?" I still sound angry, my voice low, barely controlled anger rippling off me.

"Well, it, he... the ghost ran when Sherlock answered the door. I think he thought it was only me. Sherlock chased him. He's not come back."

"How long ago was that?" Mike asks the question before I can.

"Two hours? Three?" Jamie is trying to pull himself together. "I don't have your number, I decided it was best to wait so you knew what had happened." I nod; I suppose that was big of him in the circumstances.

My mind is buzzing with questions, where've you gone Sherlock? Why haven't you rung me? I grab my phone from the mantelpiece, no missed calls, no texts. I stab his number in and wait, it rings out, goes to Sherlock's answer service.

"Hello. This is the number of Sherlock Holmes. I am not able to answer the..." I switch the phone off.

So he has his phone but he's not rung me, he isn't answering his own phone. This is not good. Maybe he can't phone me. Oh god. The hammering of adrenaline and the wash of fear is enough to make me sick. Mike and Jamie are just looking at me and the look on their faces tells me that I must be out of control. I do the only thing I can. I pick up the phone.

"Mycroft. It's John. Sherlock's missing... no really. No, no idea. Ran after Freddy's ghost. Yes, about two hours ago. Why didn't I ..? Because I didn't fucking know Mycroft! Don't fucking start this with me! Ok, ok. Sorry. What? Yes, I think so. Right, ok. Thanks. I know you will." I put down the phone carefully. Mike and Jamie are still staring.

"Sherlock's brother. Big in... well, everything really. Government, MI5, 6 too probably. He's coming over." I walk across the room and sit on the sofa. In front of me is the Wii console and remote. I think I'm going to cry. Why did you chase the ghost Sherlock, you fucking idiot? Why was I out running? I should have pulled myself together, seen Jamie, this would never have happened. Fuck. Fucking buggery bollocks. I don't know how to make this right.

Mike puts his arm around me. Passes me a tissue. We're beyond that macho shit now. He thought he was mad for months, Jamie thought he was being visited by the supernatural. A bit of fucking crying is nothing.

The door opens and it's Mycroft. His face is grim. I jump up.

"Do you know anything?" He nods and hands me a piece of paper. I unfold it, it's a map of London.

"I traced Sherlock's new phone. It took this route," he points with a finger, tracing a circuitous path through the London streets. "It's been here for the last twenty minutes. I sent a team in." He puts his hand in his pocket and brings out the one thing I don't want to see, Sherlock's phone, the screen is cracked.

A loud buzzing starts up in my head. Mycroft's still talking.

"This twin brother? It's more concerning than we imagined. Hereditary mental breakdown usually starts in the early twenties. This guy's been in and out of hospital more times than I care to divine. Last serious episode was right around his brother's suicide. Probably why the mother and sister didn't attend Freddy's funeral. Apparently he's been obsessed with the military from a young age. Bought the magazines, avidly followed the websites, and joined a few online paramilitary communities. He's been on our books as a matter of fact but we didn't consider him a threat. So you can imagine the impact of him finding he had a brother in the army..." I nod.

"And then that brother dies... kills himself because..."

"Because of me..." Jamie ends the sentence and we all just look at him. "No wonder he hates me. No wonder he's been stalking me."

"Yeah. No wonder. And now he's got Sherlock. Is he dangerous Mycroft?" Mycroft's eyebrow rises. He twists his mouth as though his words are bitter and he doesn't want to say them.

"Mentally unstable, random and varied military knowledge, obsessed and possibly suicidal? I'd say yes, wouldn't you? And he's got my little brother John." He looks at me. Those cold eyes bore into me and in them are all the things he doesn't say to Sherlock, won't ever say to Sherlock. I give a determined nod.

"Do we know where he might be in this area?" I look at my watch, "the phone's not been there that long."

"Well, there's been some CCTV footage of a man of that description in this building but I can't be one hundred percent sure," he taps the map.

"Right, I'm going to find him." I hear my voice, cold, in control.

"John, I have men at my disposal..." I interrupt, already putting on my jacket, getting my gun from the drawer beside the fireplace.

"Mycroft. I'll need the backup, thanks. But I know Sherlock, I know how he thinks, how he reacts. And I knew Freddy; his brother's going to know that too. I have more chance if I try alone first. I can't let anything..." My voice breaks, I cough.

"I'm coming with you. Got a spare gun?" Mike is pulling on his sweatshirt, Jamie's behind him fastening his shoes. I point to the kitchen drawer where I keep my spare.

"I can't sanction an ex armed forces manhunt through the capital!" Mycroft exclaims angrily.

"Then don't. Look over there." I point at the window. Mycroft turns and we leave.

**Oh my god, I'm scared and I know what happens! So, Sherlock in peril! What do you think? **

**Here we are nearing the end of another case my faithful Baker St Irregulars! Don't worry; the next adventure is already percolating. Thanks for your support and friendship so far. Sherlock has introduced me to some wonderful people. PrincessNala (possibly obsessed with this fic) and Peachsilk (thanks sooo much for the KMC, the emails that make me smile, watch out for those koalas!) Darmed (we're thinking about you, get some rest, hope you're feeling ok) Clubba Bear, Tasty- Kate (how's Italy?) ,2cajuman2, Tanya Zsa Zsa (you are a babe! I really appreciate your insight into the past fics) Munchiees!, Aelfric's cat (loving Hollinghurst! Love the whole decadence.), mrs winny, Despairandcupcakechild!, Mouserjb4, Tillif and Harpyquin and Jazzysatindoll (says she'll draw us the dungeon! :D),thegeekyprincess and Flabagash! I'm lucky to have met you!**

**Love you OHOB and Reggie Cx**


	17. Rescue Mission

It's stupid to run across London when we might need our energy. I hail a cab and we bundle in. There's this vague echo of our previous lives, the one where we crouched in the back of camouflaged vans and travelled across arid landscapes, guns in our hands, adrenaline in our veins. I look at Mike and he grins briefly. I smile back. I am still worried about Sherlock, angry with myself for letting him go so easily, angry with him for going. But I can't afford those emotions now; they make you slow, distracted. This is a chase, a hunt. We have to be the winners.

"Map." Says Mike, he was the most senior of us and we fall into order easily even after all these months. This is training; it's what helped us survive. For the briefest second, before focus, concentration shuts down all peripheral thoughts, I have the precious sense of belonging, the feeling of bonding and shared goal which I have missed without knowing. I hand him the map.

He spreads it out on the empty seat. Then he gets out his phone and connects to the internet. With both mediums he shows us the plan of attack. From the satellite picture from the web we can see our target is in a derelict office block.

"Right, Watson, you're going in here," the pointing finger stabs the paper. I'm taking our main route in, not the most obvious to a member of the public but to someone ops trained it's the route that makes sense. From here I'll be able to observe the lie of the land and how to proceed.

"We've no radios, how do you want to play this?" I ask. Mike looks up and then back to the map. He points.

"McMurray, you go in after Watson, stay back watch for his signals. I'll be here," he points on the phone to a building where the vantage point will allow him to see right into the office block. "Feed back to me anything Watson says. I'll keep you covered through these broken windows. First sign of hassle that we can't handle," he looks up at us both, face deadly serious. "We back the fuck out and let Mycroft's boys in. Right Watson?" He looks at me, captures my gaze for a heartbeat.

"Yes sir." I say. He grins and nods.

The taxi stops two blocks away from the office building. We get out. I go on ahead, a lone jogger just finishing his route home. The only difference is the hand in my jacket pocket, holding my Browning.

I reach the building, slow down and lean on the small fire door. I bend like I'm catching my breath but I take the chance to push the door and test the lock. It opens a fraction. I cram a stone into the door frame; we might need to get out in a hurry.

The front of the building used to be all glass but now it's mainly chipboard as the windows are broken and the whole place has the air of emergency evacuation. I take my hand from my pocket and get the Browning out, hand perfectly steady. My heart begins to beat louder as I move back the board on the furthest right, unobtrusive from both outside and in, and I slip inside.

The floor is strewn with shards of glass. It reminds me of places I've seen where bombs have gone off in the street, fractured and splintered. I pick my way down the side of the lobby; pictures hang askew and covered in dust so thick that their images are obscured. I choose the sections of floor where other objects have shielded the carpet from the glass. I barely make a noise. In a movement which used to be second nature to me I swing the muzzle of the gun before me, behind me, covering myself from every angle. It's amazing how easily I have slipped back into this mode. Once again I thank the Royal Fusiliers for the training which has saved my life more than once and I hope will save the man I love.

There's someone moving about upstairs. I crouch behind a large square plant pot, the dead flowers and spider plants inside the pit give off a rotting, sickening odour but I hardly notice it. I am listening hard.

Someone shouting, ranting from the sound of it. I strain my ears for Sherlock's voice but I don't hear him. Please don't let him be dead, I think in a moment of self awareness. Then the shutter of the operation comes back down. I turn back slightly and look for Jamie. He's removed a small section of the board, enough to wriggle under and he's peering beneath it. I gesture that they are up the stairs; he nods and turns to relay the message to Mike.

I dash from the cover of the planting to the stairs. I can't see another way up but to take the wide, white staircase which leads up from the lobby. It's exposed and dangerous but I can't go around the back because then I lose sight of Jamie. I turn to him and point up the stairs. He shakes his head and I shrug, the old unspoken eloquence comes back to us. The art of communication without words. He's telling me it's too risky, I tell him there's no other way. He glances to either side of the staircase and then nods, shrugs.

I turn and begin my ascent. The glass is not so littered here and it's easier to make silent progress but it's also right out in the open. All I need is for 'Freddy' to come out of that room at the top and I'm a goner. We know he's armed, Mycroft said as much, and we think he'll use it.

I make it to the top and, leaving myself three steps cover, I lie belly down and peer onto the landing. Nothing. Still the shouting which sounds more and more like that Hitler at the Nuremburg rally footage, possessed and manic. I can't make out the words. I turn to gesture to Jamie but he's gone. A moment's blind panic and then I look up to the bigger windows of the lobby, higher up and still mainly intact. I see Mike on top of the building opposite. He has a perfect view of the landing through a shattered pane through which the wind is blowing. He waves and gestures that he has a clear shot. I give him the thumbs up. Where the fuck is Jamie?

I take a glance again at the landing. Two double doors right ahead, obviously to some conference room, two more sets of stairs sweeping right and left behind me and nothing else. The dusty blue carpet shows footprints. Two, about size nine I'd say, too small to be Sherlock's. Beside them is something which makes my blood turn cold in my veins, the distinct imprint left by dragged feet. Was Sherlock unconscious when 'Freddy' got him here?

One of the double doors is slightly ajar; I wriggle across the carpet to the closed door and wait for my heart beat to still before I risk a look around and into the building. I was right, it is a conference room. Blue upholstered chairs with gold painted metal frames are dotted about the place, some knocked over as though the guests left in a hurry. Some of the large round tables still have the shreds of table cloth on them: once white, they hang like shrouds.

At first I can't see anyone but I follow the shouting, still incoherent, still angry, crazy. I glance back to Mike; he waves his hand to the side, telling me to open the door so he can see through to the room. I gently push it and it creaks. I wince, scramble into the room before anyone can react. The shouting has gone silent and I scuttle for cover behind the long blue curtains which hang on the back wall of the room. I hold the bottom of the material still so the flapping will not give me away. I feel, more than hear, footsteps crunching nearer and nearer. I raise the Browning, trying to gauge through the dark material from which direction my attacker is coming. If I have to shoot him through the curtain I will, it won't kill him but it will slow him down. The footsteps are so close I can hear him breathing, shallow, through his mouth. He stops and quietens his breath. I freeze, will myself silent, invisible, and he begins to walk again, this time away from me.

I give it a minute and edge a foot out and push the door open some more. I have no way of knowing if this movement will be seen but this is one of those times when you have to make things happen, you have to change the pace to one you're ready for and your target isn't. Nothing happens so he either didn't notice or he's waiting for me to make the next move. I count to a hundred and fifty and then crawl to my left, out behind the tables and down to where the shouting has now resumed.

From my angle on the floor I still can't see anything. But I can hear. I wish I couldn't. There are thuds and slaps which I recognise as being made by a hand or a boot hitting a body. And I can't bear to think of the body being hit by that fist, that boot. I feel the rage inside me, the urge to leap up and run down the room; firing the Browning until someone is dead and the awful noise stops. I speak to that creature inside me, make it pay attention and I tell it that there will be time for this later but right now we have to be in control because we have to get Sherlock out alive. A body being hit is still a live body.

"And now I'm dead!" Thud. "Now I'm gone! Freddy! Freddy!" The name becomes a chant and for some reason the memory of the teacher's voice reading 'Lord of the Flies' back at school when I was fifteen rises unbidden into my memory. The voice is wild, savage, each chant punctuated by a thud. Just when I am about to break cover, give it all up because I can't listen to that noise anymore, the noise of Sherlock being kicked, I hear another voice.

"Freddy! Freddy! What are you doing man?" It's Jamie, his voice more Northern in its softness as he talks to his long dead friend. The thudding stops, so does the chanting.

"Jamie? Jamie? What the fuck are you doing here? Have you finally realised what you've done? You've killed me, you've killed me." The voice is keening, wailing and I use the cover to wriggle closer to them.

From the cover of an overturned table I get a view. He is standing, shaking, his mouth open in a wide O of pain. The image is disturbing. His blonde spiky hair, the shape of his face, his stance, his uniform army t shirt are all Freddy, my friend, the man at whose funeral I cried. But this can't be him. Jamie is in front of me, he must have found a side entrance by the low stage area at the front of the room. But my eyes are drawn to the figure crouched on the ground between them.

Sherlock is dressed in his shirt and trousers. Although I know he mustn't have had time to put his coat on before he gave chase there is something shockingly vulnerable about him curled without that thick, eccentric coat on the floor of this freezing building. I can see he is shaking, rocking. His head is down and he's shielding himself with his hands. From here I can see, and the sight makes me want to scream, that at least two of those long, beautiful fingers are broken. I realise I am biting my lip.

Jamie takes a step forward.

"I never meant it to happen Freddy, it got out of hand, you know that. We aren't bad men, we just got it wrong."

"Noooooooo!" screams Freddy, hand whipping to his waistband. Jamie's hands go up; he's no gun I realise in a flash of cold horror. I watch as the world slows down and Freddy points the gun at Sherlock's head.

"Shall we put him on a lead? Your friend here?" His foot flashes back and he kicks Sherlock again. I grit my teeth. "Shall we stub cigarettes out on his body, shall we make him do things to us like we did before Jamie?" His voice is higher, screeching, mad and utterly inhuman. He cocks the trigger. While 'Freddy' is occupied Jamie darts forward, the blonde head comes up too late as Jamie barrels into him, the gun goes off. There's no time for me to react. 'Freddy' pushes Jamie's limp body from him and stumbles back. Jamie is bleeding, the vivid red of his arterial blood pumps from his stomach wound and I watch him fall limply to the floor. 'Freddy' points the gun; I watch his finger on the trigger. There is a noise, a small indistinct noise. It is the sound of Sherlock whimpering and I fire the Browning.

The shot seems to echo and then I realise that Mike has fired too. 'Freddy's' body lurches back at the leg, my kneecap hit swinging his weight back on his uninjured leg. But Mike's head shot pushes him back and he crashes onto the table behind him and the whole thing collapses in a disturbance of grey cloth, Formica and dead body.

I run to where Sherlock is still shaking and making that awful noise. He flinches when I touch him.

"Sherlock, Sherlock it's me. John." I stroke his back and kiss his head. I take off my jacket and throw it over him. He lifts his face. His eyes are massive, so pale that they are almost transparent, pupils like full stops. He's in shock and I don't blame him. I bend my head to look at his fingers. Two of them are bent painfully, he'll need them splinting if he's going to play the violin again. That's when it all hits me. I start to cry, with relief, with the absence of the overwhelming fear of losing him. This seems to bring him out of it.

"John?" his voice is weak, a whisper. He puts out his hand and winces. I wipe my eyes with my t shirt and put my arm around him. We sit there, just breathing together. We're like that when Mike and Mycroft turn up. Mycroft comes straight to us, bending and questioning me with his eyes.

"He's ok." I say quietly. "He's got two broken fingers and he'll have some bruising but I think there's no internal bleeding." Mycroft closes his eyes like he's saying a prayer of thanks. He stands sharply and gestures to three men in the doorway. Two of them carry a stretcher down the room and lay it on the floor next to Sherlock. I help him onto to it, shielding his injured hand as he lies down. The men pick the stretcher up, his eyelids flicker; he holds his other hand out to me. I take it.

"I'm coming with you." I say. The men look at Mycroft who nods. They begin to check Sherlock over, gentle hands run over his body, he winces.

The other medic has gone to Jamie's body. It's obvious from the angle he has fallen that he's dead, the bullet wound in his stomach made sure of that. There's something poignant, tragic, about the way his body lies, sprawled, helpless on the dusty carpet.

There is a gasp from Mike who is crouched over the body of the ghost. The bullet hole in the forehead is a testament to Mike's exemplary shooting skills, the wound neat, clear, even from the distance. The material of his trousers is ripped up at the knee where my bullet has shattered his kneecap. I follow Mike's gaze to the sleeve of the t shirt. There is something tattooed on the skin, Mike's hands, trembling now the danger is passed, lift the sleeve. Burned, scarred into the dead man's flesh is a scarlet star.

Five weeks later and Sherlock's fingers are nearly healed. It took five hours for him to get bored of the hospital, even though the doctors wanted to keep him in for observation for at least a week. I think they only let him out when I proved I had a medical qualification. It took three days for him to get bored of being waited upon by me, Mrs. Hudson, Clara and Art. By the end of the first week I caught him trying to sneak down to the lab in the night when he thought I was asleep. By the beginning of the second week he tried to convince me he could play in the Wii with his good hand.

Mycroft has been over; his look of worry and concern vanishing from his face before Sherlock can register its presence. He treats Sherlock like he's played truant from school. I stand back and wonder about brotherly love which drove one man to believe he _was_ his dead brother and these two to bicker like children.

"Now, never do that again. It was just silly, very silly, Sherlock." He says this seriously while I stand behind him pulling my face and pointing at him, mouthing 'is he real?' to Sherlock who just grins. Mycroft takes this the wrong way and, after a lecture about the laws about having guns in this country, leaves in what might be described, if he wasn't the realm's leading underground political figure, as a huff.

It takes four days for Sherlock to try to instigate sex but it's obvious he's in too much pain from his ribs and the massive bruise on his thigh to move about much. Not to mention the strapped up fingers. He lies in the bed and I sleep on the floor even though he tries to convince me that he's ok.

"Come and sit here." He says plaintively, "I'm lonely. And bored." He adds in a dark tone. I smirk, shrug and get up from the makeshift bed of blankets. I perch on the edge of the bed. He strokes his good hand down my arm. "I think I feel better," he says hopefully. I smile.

"Really? Well as your doctor I think I might need to look you over." He sighs, resigned to my routine medical checks on his progress. I get the stethoscope from the lounge and come back. His eyes are shut and he looks really fed up.

I unbutton his pyjama shirt and he doesn't even open his eyes. The bruising is yellow now, still purple in places. The dark shading contrasts with his pale nipples. I lean with the instrument but instead brush those hard buds with my tongue. His eyes flick wide open. He sighs.

Encouraged I lick and suck, alternating from one to the other, head angled away from him. Down his body I can see the impact my mouth his having on him. I trail a wet and teasing path down his chest to his navel. He groans and shudders. His hands move and then he remembers the wounded fingers. He puts them carefully on the mattress, his body thrums with electricity.

He is hard and I ease the pyjama bottoms down, freeing his erection. The blood beats under that silken skin. I lick my lips and look up at him. His head is back and his face is more serene than I have ever seen him in the last, long month. I slide my mouth over him, he sighs and I commend myself on my excellent bedside manner.

**So, there we are. the conclusion of 'The Mystery of the Scarlet Star'. I hope you liked it. This last chapter was a bugger to write, emotional, action which had to be precise and lets of stuff to get wrong. I hope it worked out ok?**

**I'm running out of ways to say thank you to the Baker Street Irregulars. We've been on quite a journey these last few months haven't we? Thank you for your continued support, friendship and love. Your insight into writing and plotting, your enthusiasm for smut and your unswerving loyalty to these characters is something I'm not sure I derve but thanks you anyway. PrincessNala( with us from the start) and Peachsilk (my friend) Darmed (here's the end of your story darling) Clubba Bear, Tasty- Kate (how's Italy?) ,2cajuman2, Tanya Zsa Zsa (don't feel you have to re rad it all!), Munchiees!, Aelfric's cat (book buddy), mrs winny, Despairandcupcakechild!, Mouserjb4 ,Tillif and Harpyquin and Jazzysatindoll (don't forget she takes requests... ),thegeekyprincess and Flabagash! I start 'The Case of the Puffer Fish' on Saturday!**

**Love you OHOB and Reggie Cx**


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